A Far Distant Future Volume Two
by Vespaer
Summary: It's amazing what absence will do to the heart...
1. Prologue

**A/N: Wheee the story continues!!! So, a couple things: 1) anyone who read Ch12 of Vol1 notice how Samuel referred (in Tabula Rasa) to Sylar as a lion? That's gonna come up again in this Vol as well, and 2) did anyone notice in last night's episode that Claire got stuck to a wall having been impaled on a rod??? I swear I'm psychotic. Anyhoo, sorry for the delay on gettin' this story moving all! Been super busy at work and the weekend I had was a little more full than I thought it would be, but hey! Movin' on!!!! Vol 2 is now officially underway YAY! Enjoy!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**1) Prologue**

The beauty of having younger, rookie partners was that they always did the driving. The detective gazed out the window through the tumbling cloud of chalky white dust, contemplating the irregularity of the visit he was about to make while the sprawling Texas vineyard rolled by. He wished he could say this was a social call to inquire on the well-being of his victim's parents, having lost a daughter who should've been laying flowers on their graves centuries from now (and_ that_ irony was not lost on him), but Noah Bennett was not the kind of man that was going to take the situation lying down. The detective had spent decades of his life interrogating men like Bennett - likely while the man was busy kicking down doors, firing government issue projectiles, and committing nefarious acts of espionage - and he was hopeful that during his time there he wouldn't see the tell-tale facial ticks implying that Bennett was up to something he'd rather not discuss with the lawman.

Upon his arrival Sandra was polite enough to offer him and Chad each a glass of her famous lemonade after which she retreated to a sitting area inside a big bay window overlooking the property. Judging by the worn condition of the spot, it appeared it had recently seen a lot of use. She had no further interaction with them for the rest of the afternoon, clutching an old stuffed bear, daydreaming of better days.

"I hear he didn't even put up a fight," Noah began. He knew how odd that kind of behavior was for their subject - probably knew it better than anyone having hunted him as long as he had - which made the detective immediately suspicious. Perhaps he was just being paranoid.

"Nope, he sure didn't."

"I suppose it's too much to hope that he just_ felt bad_ all of a sudden." The laugh he smirked was bitterly icy. "So bad he felt it necessary to..." _Kill our daughter_. He left the statement unfinished out of respect for his wife.

"Mr. Bennett, under ordinary circumstances this would be an open & shut case for the death penalty. Obviously... these are not ordinary circumstances." He sipped his lemonade – it was heavenly. "That said, however, thanks to the files you were able to supply me in conjunction with the evidence I'd collected over the past seven years we were able to charge him with the murders of a fairly significant list of people. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I tell you that I doubt you'll see him again in your lifetime."

"So you don't think he's gonna attempt an insanity plea? He's pretty convincingly insane…"

"He's pleading _guilty_, Mr. Bennett."

"Hmph. Slippery bastard'll be out in fifty on good behavior, you watch."

"Mr. Bennett -"

"With all due respect, detective, while I understand you know his movements and his habits rather well, you don't _know_ him know him, not like I do."

The detective had to concede the point. While he, too, had a rather large compilation of information on the man named Gabriel "Sylar" Grey, it paled in comparison to the vast carton of folders Bennett had been able to provide. It did not escape his notice, however, that one file appeared to be missing… another questionable detail betraying Bennett's intentions.

"I don't suppose I can do much to assuage your fears, Noah, so I'll skip the speculation for now. I _came_ here to tell you what I _do_ know." He wanted to point out that, if Bennett had cooperated and collaborated with the feds a long time ago, the son of a bitch could've already been serving time and his daughter might still be alive. He let that sleeping dog lie. "He's been transferred to the Federal Correctional Complex in Terre Haute, Indiana and has been placed in the ward for the criminally insane, in a cozy little padded cell deep underground. He's not gonna be able to just walk out of -"

Noah Bennett unleashed an angry and incredulous laugh that seemed to pull all the way from his toes, and he rubbed his belly from the force.

"Wow, buddy, have _you_ been misinformed. I promise you, unless you're doing _something_ to suppress his abilities, if at any point he wants to walk right on up out of there, that is just _exactly_ what he's gonna do!"

"_My point_, Mr. Bennett," the detective continued, undaunted, "is that federal prisoners who have been labeled '_criminally insane_' don't exactly get out on '_good behavior_'."

He had known this conversation wasn't going to be pleasant, and he knew he was going to see things reflected in Noah's eyes that he'd rather not see: ruthlessness, revenge, and a cunning dishonesty. He rubbed the back of his neck, having seen all he needed to. Noah Bennett would need to be watched, his work here was done. He looked to Chad who was quietly investigating framed family photographs above the fireplace mantle, making every effort not to draw attention to himself.

"So," Noah spoke, "they sentence him to three hundred years. Then what? Three _whole centuries_ from now no one is gonna know this guy, no one's gonna know what he's capable of, just that he's some gene freak who's been locked up forever, and he's gonna walk free. What then? The justice system can't hold him forever, _detective_."

"You don't think three hundred years of intense psychotherapy can change a man?"

Noah returned a glare dripping with outright amazement and disbelief before chuckling to himself and rubbing his right eye.

"Detective, I don't think you -"

"Is there something else you'd rather see done here, Mr. Bennett?" _Do you want to see him tortured? Is that what you want? Will that bring her back? Torture is illegal in this country, by the way._ He maintained his thinning thread of sensitivity toward the matter, though his patience was definitely being tried.

He expected Noah to slam a fist into a wall or throw a fragile object before screaming '_I want my daughter back!!!_' Instead, the two men locked eyes for what seemed like an age before Noah finally relented. His shoulders sagged and his gaunt, dark-circled eyes drifted shut. He was nothing more than a man in pain.

"I think we're upsetting my wife," he lied. She was upset long before the agents arrived.

"Yes," the detective nodded in agreement, "of course." He wasn't going to leave without parting words however. "Please consider, Mr. Bennett, that for what it's worth he _has_ been apprehended. I know it's little consolation and the situation isn't ideal, but that has to count for _something_." He sighed, setting down his empty glass and catching Chad's attention. "Thank you for your hospitality, and as always, Mrs. Bennett, your lemonade is unparalleled."

As the car pulled away he called in for surveillance to be placed on the home. He hung up the phone and swallowed against the empty pit in his stomach. This was the part of the job he hated the most – that every success was met with a chasm of loss, wishing he could've done more.

~*~*~

As the billowing dust of the agents' departure settled on the tender green leaves of reaching, climbing grapevines, Noah tentatively approached his wife, attempting to bridge the widening distance between them. If there had ever been a time when they needed to be united, it was then. He placed his hand on her shoulder and nearly shuddered with relief when she didn't pull away from his touch.

"She's still alive, Noah," she said.

An ordinary man would view her statement as a symptom of grief, and not a simple fact. He had no response for her because, truthfully, he believed she was right. In this case, there was a very good chance their daughter _was_ still alive. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, and he was prepared to face the worst… but he couldn't ignore the knowledge that their daughter was no ordinary woman.

"And that's the worst part," Sandra continued, "waiting for her to walk through that door. If she were anyone else, I could just tell myself to stop waiting…" She turned to rest her chin on his hand, bathing him with tearful blue eyes. He knelt before her and smoothed back her disheveled hair. "Why won't she come home, Noah? Someone should be looking for her…"

For the tenth time in the past hour he thought of Molly Walker and her amazing gift. Just a few seconds was all it would take and they'd have their answer. And that was why he _hadn't_ asked her, and wasn't sure he could.

What if he didn't get the answer he wanted?

Two weeks later he learned he'd missed his chance when he received a frantic and heartwrenchingly sorrowful phone call from Matt Parkman. Despite the family's best attempts to relocate themselves and live new lives… Molly had been snatched in the middle of the night while Matt was working an overnight shift, undercover investigating a house reported to contain a meth lab. He'd come home to find his house completely choked with green sedative gas, his wife and son unconscious in their beds, and Molly's bedroom window wide open.

She was the first of this new round of abductions.

~*~*~

*** _twenty years later_ ***

It was the middle of the night. The wing in which he resided (for lack of a better term as the word "wing" suggested a portion of a structure that existed above ground) was always alive at night with the white noise of nearly constant muttering, banging, or sometimes yelling. Typically, once one of the loonies got going the rest of them tended to join. He attributed the increasing level of noise to this phenomenon.

Sylar had been unable to sleep, having once again found himself subjected to another manic bout of impatience and claustrophobia that seemed to be occurring on a somewhat cyclical basis. This time he'd prepared himself by reading up a bit on yoga and meditation techniques. He had placed himself in the dead center of his cell, cracked the kinks out of his neck, and assumed a lotus position. While he wished he'd had a candle (and he'd feel a bit sissier about that if he wasn't in, like, _prison, _or some shit), they were against regulations so he settled for the indicator light gently blinking above the digital lock down the corridor. He reigned his breathing into a proper rhythm and tried to think of something that made him happy. Suddenly all he could think of was sex, which only served to piss him off. He tried thinking of baseball or some grandmother he'd never had before he gave up and flopped back onto his back.

He was lonely, desperate for fresh air, a change of scenery, and a ferocious lay, people all around him were yelling in the middle of the night, and he was miserable. Meditation was a cruel hippy farce. The worst part was that he'd put _himself_ there.

"You could just leave, you know," his little subconscious demon told him, his hunger. "No one can stop you, you can just walk right out."

But then he saw her smile, a light in the darkness. He remembered mentioning a '_clean slate_'. He had made it a personal challenge to withstand his full sentence – not just out of some weird sense of honor to her… but oddly enough… to _himself_. It wasn't just _her_ that had placed her faith in him. When he was done there he wanted the opportunity for a _real_ life, and he couldn't do that by indulging little inner demons.

Doing his best to ignore the throbbing hardness below his navel, he sat back up and devoted his full being to concentration… until the indicator light flashed green and the door swung open. A wall of sound came crashing down the hall – the yelling he'd heard earlier was actually coming from upstairs. A correctional officer flung himself inside and crouched low to the floor, as if he were ready to spring at an unseen assailant. Nothing dissolved an erection like the presence of a sweating, panting _man_ – Sylar had never been so happy to see him, although he was immediately curious. What was going on? He pressed against the bars of his cell to get a better look.

Then the shadow stepped into the doorway.

A thick rumbling growl came from the crouching officer… who appeared to have grown a lot of fur, as well as a long fanged snout and vicious claws. Realization struck Sylar – that was William Grant, _Officer_ Billy Grant, who'd been on the list, named as living in Terre Haute, Indiana! Billy the Werewolf! _Well, I'll be damned!_ Billy glanced over his shoulder, locking his yellow eyes with Sylar's. The look meant he was his last line of defense and he was going to do his level best, regardless of who Sylar was or what he'd done. It was his _job_.

Billy lunged at the shadowman but was frozen in mid-air, hanging suspended. Before Sylar could react, to lend him any sort of aid, he felt his entire body stiffen and become completely immobile, as if he hadn't been claustrophobic enough _before_… Billy then sliced through the air to crunch into the far wall, slumping limply to the floor. The black-suit with the telekinesis approached Sylar's cell, glowering silently outside it.

"Got some new tricks, eh?" Sylar managed to grind out through clenched teeth.

"Thanks to you," called a voice. Dr. Judy Rogers strode into his plane of vision along with an additional black-suit. He really needed to break this habit of making enemies out of unusual blonde women. "Just one last thing I need from you, some oddity I found long ago, something in your blood…"

The second black-suit dispersed into a cloud and floated through the bars of the cell. Re-materializing on the other side, it produced a syringe from a belt pocket along with a rubber tube. The tube was tied around Sylar's arm, causing the veins in the bend of his elbow to engorge. The needle of the syringe sunk into the vein and red-black blood spilled into the cylinder. Having collected what they came for, they turned to leave. Dr. Rogers paused in the doorway, sparing her old quarry a parting look. She directed one of her minions to abscond with Officer Grant and then she lifted her hand.

"Sleep," said a voice he heard in his ears and in his mind – he could find no compulsion with which to fight it.

Sleep, he did.


	2. 2 Three Hundred

**A/N: Okay I'll fess up - there's gonna be parts of this that are a tad confusing. I promise I'll explain, I just am a sick little puppy who enjoys building on the confusion to come sweeping in like a superhero with my Mighty Bomb of Explanation!!! It's a nasty little ego-stroking thing, you have my sincerest apologies.  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**2) Three Hundred**

*** _three hundred years later – yup, that's right, I said three __**hundred**_ ***

Claire stood in front of the mirror. She was going to be late to work but she didn't care. There had been other jobs before, and there would continue to be other jobs whether she wanted it or not. Being late today wasn't really going to matter in the grand scheme of things. Wait... there was a '_grand scheme_'? Son of a bitch.

In her apathy, she poked her breasts. Nope, still firm. She pulled at the skin on her face, tinged somewhat grey in the energy-efficient lighting - nope, no signs of any wrinkles. No crow's feet, no lines of any kind. Just the same body, same skin, same hands, same feet, and same eyes, puffy from lack of enthusiasm. Same, same, same. Except her name.

She was two weeks into this new life as Rose Bennett (it'd been a century since she'd used the moniker so she figured it was a safe little piece of nostalgia) and she hadn't quite gotten her space legs yet. Throwing on her robe and toweling down her new strawberry locks, she'd almost convinced herself that a small breakfast might go a long way toward combating the nausea that came as a result of adapting to semi-weightlessness. Her co-worker, Tami, had told her it'd take a few weeks aboard the space station to get completely over it, but she would and it was totally normal. She didn't dare explain to Tami how _ab_normal she was. Not in _this_ day and age – not if she didn't want to live the same way the other abnormals did: in a camp on a broken, struggling planet.

Given the nature of her current profession… she thought maybe eggs were ill-advised. She opted for some dry toast while she watched a news video come over satellite about a colony in the Sagittarius sector. Something about its environmental controls had failed, leaving its population no other choice but to evacuate on no notice lest they be subject to the planet's toxic atmosphere. It wasn't the first failed venture out in the suffocating vacuum of space – the story failed to capture her interest. She was late enough.

Twenty minutes later she had left the habitation wing and was winding through a covered walkway that framed a stunning view of the Earth. She paused at the same place she did every morning, placing her hand on the railing, watching her breath fog against the tempered plexi-cement. She tried to remember the long-forgotten feel of an old dilapidated shuttle quaking all around her, tossing her around like a flapjack in a frying pan, as it surrendered itself to gravity, but the passage of time robbed the sensation from her. Eventually she'd give up this daily routine but she wasn't quite ready yet.

A pair of figures passed behind her. She turned to watch them and caught the eyes of Paula, a tall blue girl who owned what appeared to be a small storm cloud that followed her wherever she went. She was being escorted by her case worker and she wore an armband that signified she was there outside of the camps on a work release. She thought for a moment something in the blue girl's expression said that she knew Claire wasn't who she claimed to be, although she wasn't one hundred percent positive Paula's ability had any precognitive quality to it. As far as she knew, she was just a weather witch who was working with technicians in Water Treatment and Recycling. Once they had disappeared, she rubbed her arm where her own armband should've rested… but _didn't_.

She'd had to live her life very carefully to be accepted as a regular, baseline human, essentially fooling the system. She paid attention when co-workers started calling in sick, and made sure to randomly take sick days herself. Occasionally she'd donned bloody band-aids and concocted convincing stories. She never let people get close enough to her to discover the truth, which was fine because that was exactly how she _wanted_ it, and had been living it for the past three centuries. She _liked_ life by herself – it was simple and painless. And no matter what, she never ever _ever_ got hurt on the job.

Moving on, she entered the med-bay and took the elevator to the basement.

"Do you like coffee?" Claire heard Tami's voice call from the cold room as she walked into the morgue. For the third time in the past two weeks she marveled over how an immortal like herself could choose to spend forty hours a week surrounded by death. She wondered if she was becoming obsessed.

"Uhh, yeah, I guess so," she responded.

"Good, because I brought you one! Real, fresh-ground stuff. None of that standard issue, instant crap they put on the boats."

"Wow, that's great… and don't they like being called _ships_?" It was hard not to like Tami. She knew because she'd been _trying_.

Tami was everything Claire wasn't. She was a staunch, ultra-religious Catholic. Knowing she'd see the end of the universe, Claire wasn't exactly convinced she'd meet God there. Tami also possessed a hugely bigoted hatred of all things _homo sapiens modulensis_, or what had been termed "modulars", shortened to just "mods" – in essence, people like Claire. Well, not really, but sorta. And _only_ if Tami knew the truth. Which she _didn't_, because Claire was _never_ going to get hurt at work. Ever, _ever_.

All that aside, however, Tami treated everyone she met like family. She was warm, generous, and made it her personal mission that Claire never ate her lunch alone. She held nothing back when it came to tales of her by-gone, wilder days and she was more than patient when Claire's newness at the job was sometimes unfortunately exhibited.

"What've we got today?" Claire asked, noting that four of their tables were occupied. A small giggle escaped her at the tiny flash of memory – she had once woken up on one of these tables, long ago, her skin peeled away and pinned beside her, her organs hanging in a scale across the room. She's woken up after she'd grown _new_ ones.

"Somethin' funny?" Tami asked, joining her. "Here, got cream and sugar, just in case. Wasn't sure how you'd take it."

"Just cream, thanks." Blonde and bitter. Hmph. "It's nothing. Who're these guys?"

"Another group of rebel scumbags, hijacked a supply freighter headed out to one of the colonies. Can you believe it? The men and women on that boat… families'll never see 'em again. I mean, what the hell – don't my tax dollars pay to give those damned mods a home of their own where they won't hurt no one? But that ain't good enough, they gotta attack the _colonies_ now. They get those dumbass injections for _free, _did you know that?" Here she goes again… "But if my kid gets sick, I gotta pay out the _nose_ to keep 'em well. Damn mods don't even know what it's like to pay _rent_…"

"You don't have any kids, Tami." And these guys are pretty dead too, Tami. And mods have families too, Tami – just no freedom.

"I know, I'm just sayin', hypothetical," she answered, pulling the sheet back on one of them. The newly exposed body was pale and blue. She passed an examination wand over him, starting from the head and working down. She said it was more efficient starting there because it made her job move a bit quicker – most of the cadavers they received met their end from head injury, case solved. The rest was preparing the body for transport back to Earth to where it could either be claimed or cremated. Claire was silent while Tami started her recorder and began making the requisite notations that would accompany the body to its final destination. She set herself to the task of scrubbing down and preparing her work station.

"Hmm, couple lungs full of water. This guy _drowned_. Means he survived the crash."

"I thought they were -"

"They didn't make it too awful far. Got shot down by the Japanese – touched water off the coast of Australia."

"So why are they _here_?" And out came the bountiful patience for the newbie.

"Oh sure! Well, things are still hot down there, right? Got enough troubles of their own. We're a neutral location, so they figure they ship the bodies here for processing and avoid any nasty altercations."

Claire didn't think they were so neutral, but who was she to judge. Every day she spent here she felt more like an imposter, but living with it was preferable to the alternative. She only had to stick around for a couple decades before she could move on and be some _other_ false baseline human. Maybe she'd make it to one of the colonies. They were still fledgling – not much more than space stations, like the one on which they stood, and some exploratory outposts on newly discovered exo-planets, fighting to thrive under expensive and occasionally faulty bio-domes. She knew her chances for anonymity were drastically less solid in areas where the population density was lower, but she couldn't help the instinctual drive to put as much distance between herself and her fears as possible. Forever was long enough – forever spent in a _camp_ was out of the question.

"I'm done with notation, if you wanna get started – won't have to worry about me talkin' over you," Tami interrupted her train of thought. She quit staring off in space and yanked at the sheet in front of her while her co-worker took a peek at one of the other bodies.

"Wow, Rose, come take a look. Never seen a tattoo like this before." Claire set down her recorder, but snapped on a pair of long gloves. She swiveled her hips around the corners of the tables until she'd met Tami by her side. She held the arm of the body, jutting out from beneath the sheet. Shiny black ink in the form of what appeared to be an old barcode adorned his wrist, presenting someone who _hadn't_ been born a century ago (like Tami) with somewhat of an enigma. Claire couldn't stop the words from passing her lips before she'd breathed them.

"A prison tattoo."

"You know what this is?"

Startled that she'd let the admission slip, she did her best to backpeddle an explanation.

"Oh, I, uh… I saw some documentary about 'em on satellite, the old tattoos have RFID tags underneath 'em. They were used before the neural taps were invented."

"But he's got a neural tap, too – I checked all these guys before you got here this morning."

Claire didn't hear a word she said over the quickening of her pulse.

"Isn't it weird?" she continued. "How would he get such old technology?"

Claire didn't want to say it. Tami said it for her.

"I mean, it looks _real_. Do we have anything that picks up RF? I wanna check it! _How cool_! You think he's the kind of mod that has an extra long lifespan or something?" She turned to make her way to their supply closet in a flurry of curious excitement, anxious to see if they had anything that would determine the validity of Claire's claim. "Or at least until he drowned, right? So much for your weird little cockroach power, eh buddy? Do you think that thing's authentic? Like, he got it a hundred years ago or more?"

Claire had heard enough. Once Tami had disappeared into the closet, she gulped down her apprehension and clenched a fist into the fabric of the sheet. She closed her eyes and counted to three. She ripped it away.

When Tami returned, Claire fought desperately to paint a mask over the recognition that had misted over her eyes and sunk a choking knot in her throat.

"Wow, he's cute… for a mod," Tami muttered while peering over her shoulder. "Young. Too young to be wearing a centuries old prison tattoo…"

_There he was_. Three hundred years she'd walked the earth alone. Two hundred and eighty years since he'd been moved from the old Federal Prison (which was now a parking lot and a high-rise apartment complex, and that was _after_ it had spent a significant amount of time as nothing more than a crumbling ruin). After that he'd completely been lost. She'd had no idea how he'd ever find her. She'd convinced herself she didn't want him to. She'd resigned herself to never seeing him again, and had done so decades ago. She _loved_ life alone – really, she _did_ – and didn't need his wicked humor and perverted glare thank you very much. She hadn't realized how thick the layer of ice on her heart had grown until she set her eyes on his dark brows and predatory, albeit blue-lipped, mouth and it cracked – just _cracked_. She'd never wanted to feel like this again. She missed this feeling so _badly_. _Three hundred years_ and he just pops up, like waving a magic wand. Like a bottle tossed in on the tide. Her fingers itched to touch him, to be sure he was real. The knot in her throat dropped like a stone into her stomach when she reminded herself that what she was _really_ looking at was his _dead body_. How was she going to fix that…

Claire hid her face by rubbing her hand over it. She stepped away and plodded absentmindedly to her coffee. From behind her she could hear a strange buzzing, popping noise. Turning to its source she discovered Tami had procured some sort of device she was circling over Sylar's cold, grey wrist.

"What's that?"

"One of the newer neural tap readers – it picks up a greater range of frequencies. Thought maybe it'd get a hit. This puppy's real, Claire."

_Yeah, no shit_. Claire began to formulate a plan.

"Think Jesse upstairs'll want a look at him? See if he can find anything else archaic and weird?" Jesse was a pathologist who usually preferred to work on the living aboard the station, although occasionally they'd called on him in certain cases of interest. Cases like _this_.

"I dunno if I'd want to waste his time, he's pretty busy with the influx of survivors we got last night from that colony in Sagittarius, checking out what exposure to that atmosphere did to 'em."

"But what if this guy really _does_ have some kind of weird cockroach power? What if abilities like his are being handpicked for rebel missions? Wouldn't someone want to know why? I'm just sayin', I think this guy needs a little more investigation. He seems… _special_."

"You can give it a shot if you want to. When you get sent back down here – and you _will_ – Number Two'll still be waitin' for you, and you can prep yer boyfriend there after that."

_Holy crap_ if she only knew how insanely laughable that statement was.

"Deal," she smiled, switching on the hovering mechanism for Sylar's table-top, floating his body out the door and down the hall to the service lift. She did _not_, however, take him to see Jesse. Instead, they disembarked the lift two decks up in a small, rarely-used maternity ward. Apparently there weren't a lot of people having babies in space. She pulled him into a dark abandoned room and locked the door behind them. Securing him to the table dock, she began to scour the room for standard first response equipment that every room would contain. She successfully located an oxygen kit and a defibrillator. She placed the mask over his face and turned on the flow controller for the small unit that filtered pure oxygen from the atmosphere like a set of gills – the plastic around his nose and mouth flared with fog for an instant when the conditioned gas met the temperature differential of the ambient air. She lightly gripped the sheet covering him and folded it down to his navel, then placed the adhesive defibrillator pads on his chest and abdomen. Shoulders tense, having no idea what to expect, she delivered him a giant shock that seemed to jerk his already stiffening body.

Recognizing she needed to vacate the water from his lungs, she placed the device to the side. CPR and First Aid courses had been required by her job, and she knew the best way to make this happen was through repetitive compression. She crawled onto the table, straddling his waist, and she placed the heels of her palms against his breastbone, trying to ignore how cold he felt underneath her. Resolute, she took a deep breath and began her task.

*pound*pound*pound*pound* "Come on…" *pound*pound*pound*pound* "Come _ON_…" *pound*pound*pound*pound* "Come on, _wake up_…" *pound*pound*pound*pound* "Wake _UP_ you son of a bitch.." *pound*pound*pound*pound*

After fifteen minutes of backbreaking work she was exhausted, sore, and gasping for air without even so much as a gurgle from him to show for it. She pressed her hands to her face before dragging them through her hair in frustration. She wanted to cry but her pride wouldn't let her. She wouldn't admit defeat, she wouldn't give in to loneliness, and she wouldn't cry over _Sylar_. Something fierce within her snapped and she raised both fists over her head.

"I said _WAKE UP_ you _asshole_!!!!" she screamed as she slammed them down into his chest. She raised them and pummeled him again and again, ignoring the pressing ache in the small of her back and taking for granted that the corridors outside were truly void of an unintended audience. "You _NEVER_ died when I wanted you to – you're _NOT_ dying _NOW_!" Pulling herself together, she resumed her chest compressions the orthodox way before giving up and leaping off of him. She retrieved the defibrillator and seared him with another spine-arching jolt.

"_WAKE UP YOU PIECE OF SHIT_!!!"

She shocked him again, mind reeling with ways to convince herself that she _didn't_ smell charred flesh. Empty and hopeless, trembling from the exertion, the defibrillator left her fingers to clatter on the floor. She weakly stumbled backwards into a comfortable waiting chair and began to sob uncontrollably, despite her wish for control, sucker-punched by a long-repressed and bitter sense of loss.

"How… how can you leave me? You're not supposed to… not like _this_…"

She ripped her body out of the chair and flung it at him.

"I fucking _hate_ you - you hear me?!? _I FUCKING HATE YOU_!!! You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? You've always known - known just how to make me feel _weak_, make me feel _dirty_ for missing you - and you just _LOVE_ it don't you!!! You're just _rolling in your grave_!!! Well, _FUCK YOU_!!!"

She began to slap his bare skin with her open hands.

"_FUCK YOU_!!! I don't want you! I don't _need_ you - I don't need _anyone_!!!"

Her open hands balled into punching fists with bruising knuckles.

"I'm just fucking _FINE_ without you!!! I _know_ you can hear me you piece of shit..." her voice trailed off to a choked whisper as she threw her arms around his middle and pushed her forehead into the soft arch under his ribs.

"Please... please don't leave me all alone... _please_... I was wrong, I admit it, I'm sorry. I need you," she choked, "I don't wanna be alone... please wake up... please..."

His belly beneath her suddenly spasmed. She almost wasn't quick enough to jump out of the way when suddenly he sat up, losing his balance to crash to the floor. Pandemonium ensued as the oxygen mask was ripped from his face, the momentum sending the filtering unit flying. The table skidded several feet with a loud honk and he landed on his hands and knees, gagging and spewing, ejecting a fountain of water from his lungs. The shock tore her feet from beneath her. Numbly, she unconsciously began to crawl toward him. He fell over, tangling himself in his sheet, unruly limbs thrashing stiffly in an effort to escape some unseen terror. She could see reflected in his eyes he was reliving those final, panicked moments before he succumbed to a watery death. His mouth was open in a hoarse, silent scream. And then she was before him and he saw her – he shone with recognition and complete unabashed astonishment. She was sure the face she gave him wasn't much different.

"Claire…" he mouthed as he reached a shaking blue arm toward her. She slid her fingertips against his frigid hand. "…missed you…"

"I know," she responded. She'd known for a long time, hundreds of years, and had even told him as much once.

Her thoughts scattered when a shaft of light blazed from underneath the door. They had company. Taking his hand more firmly, she tugged him to his unsteady feet. He clutched the drooping sheet around his waist.

"Come, quickly – up here!" she whispered frantically, putting her shoulder into helping him back onto the table. She straightened the sheet over him as fast as she could, engaging the hovering mechanism. "I know you're cold, but you have to stay as still as possible." She pulled him out of the room and directly into the path of Lou, the security officer typically on duty during her shift.

"Jeeesus, Rosie, yer gonna give me heart failure – what're you _doing_ up here?"

"Being a typical _lost_ new girl… trying to take this guy to see Jesse but got all turned around…"

"Ahh, he's _down_ another floor, girl!"

"Figures… guess I better move. They got pepperoni pizza in the commons today – me and Tami gonna see you there for lunch?"

"Maybe, you know I can't resist lunch with the living dead girls. We'll see. You take care, now!"

"See ya!"

She collapsed against the wall of the lift after the door slid shut behind them. Sylar pulled the sheet away from his face.

"Living dead…?" his lips stated.

"Yeah, I know. This place is a million laughs."

"We're not going _down_."

"No. No we're not."

The lift opened up onto the walkway she'd taken from the habitation wing earlier that morning. Holding the door while it pulsed against her hand, she leaned far into the corridor and thanked her lucky stars it was empty. It'd fill up closer to lunchtime.

"I know this is gonna be hard, but we have to move quickly. Do you think you can?"

He nodded mutely, and didn't look too awful certain.

She drug him stumbling behind her, praying he didn't trip over the corner of the sheet that was currently wrapped around him like a toga. She nearly dislocated her shoulder when he came to an abrupt stop as the Earth came into view.

"Not now!" She yanked harder and he complied. Ducking into her domicile, she briskly locked the door behind her.

"I don't have long, people are gonna notice I'm gone – come with me. We need to warm you up."

She led him from the front room – a living area containing a tv, a sofa, and two chairs, and a small kitchenette with mini-fridge capable of providing snacks and small meals. She stopped short of her bedroom and dressing area to turn him into the restroom facilities. Her cube-shaped shower had a small tub at the bottom which she began to fill with steaming hot water.

"Get in," she directed as she averted her gaze, applying her attention to the small cupboard above the toilet where she had stashed a few towels and washcloths. Returning, she kicked the sheet aside and knelt by the tub. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chin, teeth chattering and body convulsing with shivers, blessedly warm water beginning to pool around him. She dipped a washcloth under the faucet and smoothed it over his shoulders, cascading rivulets down his back. He closed his eyes and a sigh escaped him. She clamped her lips together in an attempt to suppress a smile.

When the tub had reached its capacity she turned off the faucet but continued her ministrations. Using his knees as a pillow, his eyes remained closed and the pallor of his skin began to take on a more healthy pink hue. Noticing his rate of breath had deepened, she remembered every death she'd experienced over the past three centuries – the first thing she _always_ wanted to do was sleep, her body requiring the rest while it performed the arduous task of repairing itself. She reached over and retrieved her long, blue robe hanging from a hook behind the door, spreading it wide as she stood.

"Come on, buddy. You can't sleep here – ironically, you could drown."

Oh yeah, a _million_ laughs. He gave her a weary but incredulous expression as he braced his hands on the wall, not quite trusting his legs to hold him as he rose. He wound the robe tightly around him, still shivering upon meeting the cooler air. Claire came at him from behind with a towel, standing on her tip toes to meet his height, ruffling his short dark hair into soft damp spikes. Rubbing her hands vigorously up and down his arms, trying to make heat from friction, she guided him back into the living area where he folded himself up on her sofa. By the time she'd made her way to her bedroom to procure a pillow and a spare blanket he'd fallen asleep. He mumbled something incomprehensible as she stuffed the pillow under his head. Once she was sure she had the blanket tucked tightly around him and he was completely swaddled with no pink skin exposed, she returned to the hovering table waiting for her in the lift, wholly preoccupied while trying to concoct a cover story and – most importantly – a _plan_.

~*~*~

No one paid the Shadow Man any notice as he stepped off the embarkation dock from the _Zephyr _and into the chilly, dry atmosphere of the space station. He wasn't the first of his kind to be seen skulking around in search of their typical quarry. It wasn't unusual for him to be here: the scuttlebutt over the failed bio-dome in the Sagittarius sector was that the equipment was compromised due to sabotage – _mod_ sabotage. The likely culprit could still have been hiding amongst the terrorized survivors. _His_ agenda, however, was quite different in that it was a secret shared with no one. There was also the fact that he was an individual, and not a cloned hive-mind following biologically programmed imperatives communicated through a chemical means. His directive was not to seek and contain rogue mods or known rebels – names on a list passed down through a regular chain of command – not like the _others_. He was searching for one _very particular_ man, one who had gone missing for nearly three hundred years, one who had been aboard an ill-fated vessel destined to carry supplies and labor personnel to a far away colony – the very one that had experienced a violent take-over only to be shot down somewhere in the inky blue Pacific.

The Shadow Man remembered the day it happened. He'd kept a routine – once every ten years from the date Sylar had disappeared he used an old ability that had finally been returned to him. In the beginning he'd started with an atlas, but over time his method had evolved to include the use of star charts and a holographic projector. Sometimes he used a push pin, other times an ink pen or his finger. More recently he'd begun to use a laser pointer because, let's face it, they're neat. Until _that day_, however, the result had always been the same: his senses were completely silent – Sylar was nowhere to be found which meant he was either dead, lost outside the sectors of known space, or deep underground. And then, like _magic_ almost exactly two hundred and eighty years later, he reappeared in a mod camp near Lawrence, Kansas.

Because technically Sylar wasn't a _modular_, the security personnel had no idea what trouble they held within their walls. Sylar's emancipation had been nothing short of explosive and entirely composed of diabolical and intelligent design, however there was a missing quality that spoke volumes about the changes the man had experienced during his hiatus from the world: the body count was inexplicably _low_. It was as if tender attention had been paid to this detail. Like… he was turning over a new leaf. Regardless of the fact that the Shadow Man's ability never lied… the person he'd found was _not_ Sylar.

And now that he'd finally tracked him to a place from which he could not easily escape – he'd finally have him in his grasp – a small part of him was anxious to see exactly what he'd become. And _why_.

**A/N #2: Okay, I can hear you asking - what the hell are "modulars" and how are they different??? Off to start the Next Chapter of Awesome Explaininess and Futuristic Mumbojumbo!!!!**


	3. 3 The Liontamer Part One

**A/N: OMG YAY IT'S FINALLY HERE!!! THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE DANG STORY!!! Omg I'm so excited! Some of you I've talked out there might've heard me mention the Liontamer chapters before. Believe it or not, other than kissing and sexahtimez, the whole story so far has been building up to THIS VERY MOMENT! /em takes breath and enjoys standing on the precipice. Seriously, when I started planning this story back in JULY I asked myself, "what could possibly drive Sylar into prison and rehab??? A pretty girl? Maybe, but I'd like him to do it for himself. Creepy shadow people? SURE, there we go!!!" I have been waiting *fifteen* chapters to introduce this character and now she's here. I truly hope you guys enjoy her as much as I am. If not, that's okay too, you can't win 'em all, but she's captured a huge piece of my heart from the very moment she became a figment of my imagination. Or... maybe a bit longer than THAT as she's actually modeled after my truly awesome mother-in-law. This one's fer you Peg! Okay, enough gushin', on with the show!!!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**3) The Liontamer – Part One**

There was a restroom not many used, due to its location. It was on the far end of the station on the lowest possible deck, adjoining the constantly thrumming filtration system actively responsible for recycling used air and water. The rancid atmosphere there held a deplorably pungent odor on top of being oppressively humid – it was worth the flight of stairs to use a happier facility. Naturally, it was _there_ where Claire would find the greatest possible probability for seclusion and privacy. She pulled her faster-than-light relay device from her pocket (abbreviated to FTLRD, commonly referred to as "fetlard", affectionately shortened to just "fet" no matter how badly she just wanted to call it a damned "phone") and dialed the number she'd hoped she'd never really need to use, at least not until she was ready for a new life.

She'd enlisted Duncan Oglesby's number with the network on which the fet operated as belonging to her "uncle", knowing she'd left her _real_ uncle behind centuries ago. Because Duncan was a rebel agent, she'd used the familial term in order to deflect any suspicion… she only hoped he didn't have half a million other "nieces" and "nephews" out there on the network.

She'd met Duncan during her last transitions between lives. They'd both been pulling favors for the mob – she in exchange for a convincing murder and a new identity, he for the use of a laundered vehicle to be used for transporting camp refugees to secure locations. They'd become good friends and he'd assured her the next time she changed her life his rebel agents would prove more accommodating and less… pricey.

Before he picked up, she mentally recited the code she was about to use – one on which she'd been drilled with a few of his other agents before she'd left to rejoin the world. His voice rang clear in her ear, replete with a slightly rural New England accent, painting the picture in her mind of his familiar face shrouded by thinning, dusty blonde hair. Even from space his quick blue eyes pierced her and held her attention. She trusted him like no other. He reminded her of her dad.

"Hello?"

"Uncle? Hey, it's me, your niece - Rosie. I got your package – so thoughtful! It's expensive shipping stuff to the space stations!" _Hey, Rose Bennett – maybe you remember me, I'm the one who went off to work on the space station?_

"Oh yeah! You're mom helped me pick it out." _Yes, I remember who you are – remember you well._

"Yeah, really made my day. Thing's have been crazy here – literally just _nuts_." _Dude, I've got a serious problem…_ "But the bear, he's just got the sweetest face!" _I've got a mod here, a male – he needs an I.D._

"Well, yer mom's got something for ya too, you should see it show up in a couple days." _I'll get something up to you on the next transport._

"I'll look forward to it – hope I don't get shipped out to a colony in the meantime." _No good – we're under heavy suspicion – we need a courier._

"Yeah. Well, love you, honey, you take care and call us next week, let us know you're fine." _Understood and acknowledged._

Claire gave some sort of equally familial closure and disconnected the call. She took a backwards, convoluted path to the commons where she procured a container of soup before winding her way to a supply closet for linens and uniforms. Arms full with food and clothing for her naked visitor, she returned to her domicile. It felt so _weird_ to have company…

~*~*~

The last time she'd watched him sleep he'd been drugged, collared, and handcuffed. Underneath the boyishness of relaxed, peaceful features and youthful, fanning eyelashes there'd still been the hint of a scarcely contained killer, out cold and drooling. The scene before her was quite different. Initially there was the misfortune, she'd been startled to realize as she unloaded her cargo on the kitchenette countertop, that the blanket he'd twisted himself up in with reckless abandon was pink. _Baby powder_ pink. She probably could've turned on more lights when she'd hunted for the thing… but hindsight was just that. She suspected he either didn't know or didn't care. He'd pulled it up over his ears and his nose so that only his brow and the tips of his thick, dark aviator cut were visible sticking up above the hem. And he was mumbling. Something about a screwdriver. She wondered if he was ordering a drink…

She snaked her fingertips under the blanket to slide them into the crook between his neck and shoulder – he was blazing hot. While this would worry most, it set _her_ mind at ease. It told her his immune system was working overtime to rid his body of the infection caused by prematurely decaying tissue. His regenerative ability was working well. The chill of her fingers was a small shock against the silky warm skin, however, and he jerked awake shooting his dark pools up at her. He blinked a bit then glanced around, momentarily disoriented, before sinking back into the pillow and stretching his long frame to its fullest length.

"Claire…" he groaned with his arms pulled luxuriously high over his head, popping his left shoulder, "I fell asleep on your _couch_…"

"I know. I _put_ you there – you _needed_ it. I come bearing gifts."

She handed him the pile of clothing that consisted of what resembled hospital scrubs.

"Not much, but it's _something_. You remember where the bathroom is. I've got a spare toothbrush under the sink, and you're welcome to the shower."

Wrapping the blanket around him like a cloak, still disregarding its hue, he stood and accepted her offering. Halfway across the room, he turned back to face her, towering above her, starting to say something but unable to finish.

"_Claire_… why are…"

Trying to decipher what he was asking, she took in his face. Looking at him was like entering a room she'd lived in for a hundred years or more only to discover that _something_ had been either moved or missing, but she didn't know what it was. Something was just mysteriously _different_. Something was _gone_. Before she knew it she'd squinted and knitted her eyebrows, studying him, and he shrunk a little from her scrutiny. Ducking his gaze, he nodded and turned to leave. A slave to a sometimes impulsive mouth, she vocalized her thoughts before she could filter them.

"You're not _Sylar_, are you."

He stopped mid-step but didn't turn around.

"What happened to you?" she continued, remembering the last time she'd asked him that question ages ago.

"Gimme a few minutes, it's sort of a long story."

"Of course."

Later, while they sat sipping soup, watching the steam from the shower still billow across the ceiling in the living area, she listened intently while _Gabriel_ spoke.

~*~*~

*** _two hundred and eighty years ago – Leavenworth Federal Prison_ ***

**Trust**

She had arrived, and was ready to be escorted to her subject. The security officer left his post and entered the elevator, pushing the button for the ground floor located upstairs. He'd ignored his prisoner's fresh round of taunts as he'd passed by his cell. He was fully aware what the man was capable of and knew that, despite his mouthy bluster, if he'd truly wanted to grant him the grisly demise he'd described in creative, disturbing detail each and every time he walked by, he'd've carried out the plot by now. If he really wanted free of this place, there was nothing that was going to stop him. This knowledge gave him some solace, but didn't entirely manage to suppress the residual shudder he experienced after the elevator door closed and concealed him from view.

Maggie was _not_ what he'd expected. He had pictured someone taller, not quite as middle-aged, and a lot more cerebral and severe since he didn't exactly peg Sylar for the "mother hen" type. _Oh_. And he _certainly did_ _NOT_ envision her to be a _nun_: black gown, white habit, rosy-cheeked and smiling cherubic face, long wooden rosary, the whole shebang.

Sister Mary Magdalene stood by the locked entryway exuding limitless patience and unconditional affection. She bore a small plate whose contents were confined within a layer of gleaming tinfoil. She was short and round and always privately chuckling to herself about some aspect of human nature she found peculiar. She had an amazing sense of humor. And while Sylar was the first _super-powered_ psychopath she'd ever treated, he wasn't her _first _psychopath. Not by far. Her reputation had preceded her, even down to the page that had brought him up from the basement to retrieve her.

"Bob, yer _Liontamer's_ here," he'd been told. _The_ Liontamer, in the flesh before him, shaman to the criminally insane, ready to perform her magic. Bob was skeptical about _this_ one.

"Ma'am, I can't let you bring that in here," he informed her, referring to the plate she held.

"Please, call me Maggie," she answered, "and, while I don't wish to impede upon your ability to do your job in the same way you obviously feel comfortable impeding upon mine, may I ask why?"

Liontamer? More like a _lion_.

"Could be anything under there, ma'am. If I'm gonna let _you_, I gotta let everyone. You can leave it here with Maxwell."

"Oh, for heavens -" she exclaimed as she tossed back one sleeve with great flourish. She peeled back the tinfoil to reveal a plate of chocolate chip cookies. "Here, both of you, take one and _open this door_." Her expression was sweetly adamant. He understood why she was so good at what she did – she did not back down and she did _not_ give up. He took a cookie like a good boy – it was soft, moist, and better than his mother's – then he opened the door and led her inside to the elevator. Once the proper floor was selected, he posed the query.

"If you don't mind me asking, ma'am -"

"Maggie."

"- _Maggie_, do you bring cookies to all of your new patients?"

"It's a litmus test, designed to measure trust. A man who has completely lost his ability to trust humankind will not accept _anything_, not even a cookie, from a stranger – even if that stranger is a nun. I suspect he will be paranoid and refuse me. It tells me where to _start_."

"Ah, I see. So. Uhhh… they call you a Liontam-"

"No. I hate that name. I do _not_ tame. Taming implies breaking a person – these people are _already_ broken. I'm here to _fix_ what's broken." She turned to him and smiled disarmingly. "Really, I do prefer just _Maggie_."

"Well, _Maggie_, if you can fix this one, I'd be happy to call you Superwoman."

Sylar looked up at their approach with the undisguised curiosity a cat typically presents a mouse. Bob refused direct eye contact while Maggie conducted herself oppositely – undaunted, she squared her shoulders and beamed at the killer as if she'd known him since he was a boy. She was testing him, trying to see if he'd challenge her. Through body language alone she made it clear she was in charge of the situation – he backed warily away from her approach through the door of his cell, just as she'd suspected he would. He held no power over her – _no one_ did but her Lord. She held out a warm, confident hand.

"Mr. Sylar, I presume? I am Sister Mary Magdalene. You may call me Maggie. Since I already suspect you know why I'm here, I'll feed you no dishonesty. Shall we begin my assessment?"

Honesty, with this one, was a good first move – _well played_. Still openly cautious, he nodded.

"Excellent. You may leave us Bob."

"Ma'am -"

"_Maggie_, and I assure you I'll be just fine, won't I Mr. Sylar?"

He merely glared from under dark brows, but he didn't scare her. Bob, on the other hand, left promptly.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. Cookie?"

She firmly held his gaze with hers, steadfast, while she extended her arm to place the plate between them. The air in the room grew very still and heavy with the stalemate. His chin made the smallest, most barely perceptible movement – leaning to the side to cock his head in thinly veiled distrust. For that brief moment he was a wild animal making the terrifying decision whether or not to accept food from the bare hand of a deadly human enemy. He covered his misgivings, however, by quickly snatching up one of the chocolate-speckled confections and delivering it a voracious bite, leaning back where he sat, one ankle crossing self-assuredly over the opposite knee. He'd accepted her dare and a point was scored in his favor, but Maggie remembered this was no ordinary individual – he had the added benefit of knowing nothing could physically do him harm, regardless of the package in which it arrived. Perhaps her test was poorly applied to this particular situation – she promised to do better next time. His initial hesitation was, however, _noted_.

"So, let's see. Where to begin. Alright, yes. Tell me, how well do you know Gabriel Gray? What can you tell me about him?"

Sylar huffed a laugh and rolled his head around to leisurely study a spot somewhere on the ceiling – interestingly, someplace he wasn't met with her penetrating eyes.

"He's a douchebag."

"I see. An odd way to describe an aggregate of your own self, if not somewhat telling. What makes him so, if you don't mind my asking?"

"He's weak and lovesick and too flimsy to live up to his full potential."

"You're referring to his ability? And you wish to help him?"

"Sister -"

"_Maggie_."

"_Maggie_… you have to know that the only reason I'm here is because it's a preferable alternative to becoming a lab rat, right? My decision regarding whether or not I wish to _help_ him kinda stopped there."

She ignored his increasingly hostile tone. "And now you are here in Leavenworth and no longer in the facility in Terre Haute – because of the incident that occurred there."

He didn't confirm or deny, but also didn't take his eyes from her as she left the place where she stood to draw nearer to him, taking a seat on the cot across from the chair he occupied. She leaned closer, placing her elbows on her knees.

"So, you feel that staying here is in yours and Gabriel's best interests? You're not here because, _maybe_, Gabriel has asked you to pay for your crimes?"

Who did this woman think she was, trying to force him to admit to things he didn't want to? She was just like Claire…

"Yeah, you're right, talking about why I'm here is just _so damned productive_. Look, it sounds to me like you've already got your diagnosis, so maybe we could just -"

"Dissociative Identity Disorder. How often does Gabriel communicate with you?"

"Can we not talk about -"

"I'm just _curious_. Does it make you uncomfortable?" she smiled. "What does he say?"

"He doesn't say anything that _matters_. I'm done here. You can leave or stay, I don't care."

"It wasn't my intention to discomfort you, Mr. Sylar -"

"_Maggie_, what exactly _is_ your intention?"

"Here today, or ultimately?"

He stared her down, her answer irrelevant at that moment, head spinning with the expectation that this woman was about to become a rather long-term fixture in his life. The prospect that, for the foreseeable future, he was to be questioned and examined on a regular basis was… irritating. The knowledge pressed around him from all sides, and the cell suddenly felt too small (as if it wasn't already). A wild desperation flared in his gut.

"It's just that, regardless of what's chasing you out there, I have a hard time believing that someone with your disposition and your talents would willingly rot in a jail cell, _unless_ -"

He'd had enough, he couldn't stop himself. He picked her up and flung her against the bars of his cell, her skirts billowing in front of her, and he pinned her motionless – steel rods digging painfully into her head and shoulder blades. Bob was immediately on his feet with his firearm drawn, using a free hand to radio upstairs for help.

"Unless _what_?!? And what _disposition_?!? I don't know what you could be talking about!" he yelled sarcastically. Despite the unnerving benevolence she kept plastered to her face, Sylar could sense the quickening of her pulse and could hear her breath come and go more rapidly – no amount of mental discipline could fool biochemistry. And while her brain held no gift for him, he hungered for her blood, or perhaps it was her _disappearance_ he craved so badly. Whatever it was, he could feel his mastery over it slipping away, or maybe he was just letting it go…

"Put her down or I'll shoot!!!" Bob cried, faithful to his job regardless of how aware he was that this perpetrator could rip him limb from limb. Bob was an admirable man, if not terribly bright.

"Bob, you know that gun's just gonna piss me off."

"I'm not here to dispute that – but I don't think you _like_ it either. Put her _down_ – I'm not gonna say it -"

"Bob, do what he says, put the gun down," Maggie stated plainly and calmly.

"I cannot let him have control of this situation, ma'am."

"Bob, you've _never_ had control of this situation – _control _is just an illusion. Control is also _not_ the issue here, it's _trust_, now put it _down_. You're not helping."

Bob held his ground and did not lower his weapon. Sylar could feel the thickening energy in the room racing along his spinal cord. He twitched his lip in a snarl as he applied a little more pressure against her chest. This time her façade broke a little – she winced as it became harder to draw another breath, feeling her bones grind against the cold metal at her back.

"You're hurting her, Bob."

Bob pulled back the hammer, loading a live round into the chamber.

"Pretty sure it's you."

"Gentlemen, _please_! I made my peace with God long ago – I no more fear my own demise than I fear gazing into the face of the greatest love I've ever known, now for the sake of everything holy Officer Harriman _put that gun down_!!! He will do with me what he will and I accept my fate if I'm to meet my Lord today, but nothing I've done here – _nothing_ – will mean _anything_ if he hasn't learned the value of _trust_. And we can't build that foundation if we're all acting like _animals_." She twisted her head around to look directly into the face of the officer. "I'm okay, Bob. Everything's fine. Nobody's hurt here. What I need from you is to go intercept your men and keep everything nice and calm. Can you do that? _Please_?"

Bob begrudgingly nodded his acquiescence before he backed slowly away toward the elevator. Maggie returned her attention to her assailant, whose expression was difficult to read. She mentally replayed everything she'd just said before deciding on the item that would cause such shadows to inadvertently shift across his face. _Trust_. Cookie be damned, this man had all the faith in humanity of a gravely endangered species. He was not only _mis_trustful of people, he was _terrified_ of them – terrified of being hurt, instantly defensive, eager to flex his claws and bare his fangs.

"Mr. Sylar… those people found you in a jail cell once, what makes you think they won't do it again?" She waited for his answer, but when he gave none she continued. "I'm going to give you an unbiased opinion. I _think_ – and I could be wrong and am fully willing to admit it – but I _think_ you're still here because you don't know where else you _belong – _you were tired of the direction your life had taken, and you were desperate for a change and some much needed rest. I think you _know_ that something's wrong but you don't know how to fix it and you can't do it by yourself. I think Gabriel's been talking to you."

"_Fuck_ Gabriel." The words lacked a little of the bite that had probably been intended for them.

"He's a part of y-"

"Yeah? And what's he done that's so _great_ then? What the hell do you want with _him_ so badly?!?"

"He made _you_. And I don't just want _him_ – I want _both_ of you. I want to _know_ you – _all_ of you. What is so scary about that that it's made you _this_ protective?"

_Protective_ wasn't exactly how he'd envisioned himself, but she wasn't _wrong_…

"When was the last time you made a leap of faith, Sylar? I'm not here to manipulate you, I'm not here to pressure you – I'm here to help you get something you want. Something you _both_ want."

"You don't know anything about -"

"No, not yet, I don't. You're right. I'm hoping that will change. I'm only asking for a chance. All I'm trying to do is see if I can't help give you some peace and happiness – contentment – _cohesiveness_ – and ultimately, _integration_. I just want to _try_. There's no harm in that, is there?"

He was silent for a moment before he backed away a couple steps, lowering his head so that his hair fell in front of his eyes. His mouth, however, was drawn tight.

"You could _fail_."

"Hmmm…" Maggie answered, her voice surprisingly soothing for someone who was still strung up and helpless, "what I'm _hearing_ is '_you could give up and leave me_.'"

With quiet dignity, he angled his body away from her. She slowly slid down the bars until her feet touched the floor. He released her. She straightened her habit and took a couple breaths before picking up a couple more cookies. Unaffected, she presented one before his nose.

"Here. Have a cookie, you'll feel better."

"I'm not -"

"The cookies have chocolate and chocolate raises endorphin levels – it's a proven fact. Furthermore, it's not _poisoned_ and they're soft and moist and good, so just eat the damned cookie."

She leaned into his plane of vision with determination, took a bite of her own cookie, and smiled a squinty-eyed, toothy, crumb-filled goofy smile. Her cookies _were_ really super good… maybe one more wouldn't hurt. He accepted this one a bit more readily as she resumed her seat on his cot.

"Thank you for releasing me, you did not have to let me go."

He could barely swallow before he laughed.

"I had a choice…?"

"A choice? My dear, of _course_ you did – there's not a human being alive who could deprive you the freedom to make your own decisions. Did I ask you to let me go? I'm pretty sure I _didn't_."

She _didn't_ did she?

"I'm fairly positive," she continued, picking up another cookie, "you made that decision all on your own. I think you like me."

"You're crazy," he told her without a lot of conviction as sat back down in his chair, doing his part to help continue clearing the cookie plate of its payload.

"I'd like to think it takes one to know one."

"Yer _hysterical_."

"You like me for my _cookies_, don't you?"

It may have been the endorphin-inducing chocolate wreaking havoc on his brain, but he made another decision that seemed a bit too automatic – he allowed himself to _smile_.

~*~*~

**...More Trust**

*** _a week later_ ***

She was here again, the appointed date and the appointed time. Bob walked off the elevator to a sight he never thought he'd see. There sat the nun wearing a bright red headband supporting two tall springs. Adorning the tops of the springs were two outlandish spaceships that twirled and bobbed with every slight movement of her head – even the simple act of breathing set them into perpetual motion. Very businesslike and with great difficulty, he stifled a giggle and made his approach. When she stood to greet him, he saw she carried, this time, a spiral notebook and a small package of four sharpened multicolored pencils. _Damn_… Cookies were one thing, but this was completely different.

"Maggie, I know I let you through here with the cookies, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna let you bring whatever you want. Rules are _rules, _we got 'em for a reason – isn't there something in the Bible about that?"

"Something in the Bible about not bringing pencils and paper to prisoners? No, I'm pretty sure that one's not in there, Bob."

"No _look_ – there are good reasons why we have to enforce these things, Maggie, there's no tellin' what he could -"

"He could what – slit his wrists with a pencil? Gouge out his eyes? Disembowel himself??? Oh, I know!" She waved the notebook in the air in front of her, making a grand gesture of fluttering the pages. "He could completely shred himself with thousands of papercuts!"

"You know, I'm quite aware he can't hurt himself – forgive me for being a tad bit more worried about the _rest_ of us." Unfortunately, he made a fabulous point.

"Alright, alright fine. I will leave these with you, but as they are a part of his treatment I must demand that you grant him supervised use whenever he requests it."

"Deal." He opened the door and reached for the items.

"Can I at least _show_ them to him first?"

"As you wish…" He turned and led the way.

After the elevator had descended a few floors, it became obvious Bob was actively working rather hard to avoid looking at her. Maggie was never one to resist a challenge, as evidenced by her chosen profession.

"You're wondering if they light up, aren't you."

"Excuse me?" He turned to her out of reflex.

"These," she pointed at the comical appendages on her head. "You're wondering if they light up. You'd be correct, they do." She reached up and pushed a small button on each spaceship, igniting a series of obnoxiously hued LEDs that flashed around them in a senseless, seizure-inducing orbit. Bob did his best to blink the spots out of his vision while Maggie smiled smugly to herself. The elevator dinged when they'd reached their destination.

"What're they for?"

"Well, because my last visit was a bit… tense, I decided it might be appropriate to ease relations by interjecting a bit of humor."

"Hmm…" Bob wasn't sure the killer had _this_ kind of a sense of humor. He stepped ahead of the nun and unlocked the cell door to grant her entry. He avoided eye contact and did his best not to react to the spectacle.

"Sweet Zombie Jesus!!!" he heard Sylar proclaim.

He'd barely made it out of earshot before he spurted out a fugue of unrestrained laughter.

~*~*~

He did his best to ignore the flashing monstrosities swirling dizzyingly above her head and pay attention to what she was saying.

"I'd like to spend the greater part of this session discussing goals. I'd like to tell you what I'm hoping to accomplish, I'd like a chance to," and with this she meaningfully met his gaze, "give you ample opportunity for reaction, I'd like to explain what methods I'm hoping to employ, and I'd also like to hear your thoughts – which brings me to this." She handed him the notebook and pencils. "Once a day I'd like for you to write down things you suspect Gabriel would like to communicate with you, and I'd like for you to write things you'd like to communicate with him in return."

He opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced.

"Now, before you get cantankerous, young man, and start flinging me around like a big fat kite, let me _finish_. This is not for _me_, it is for _you_. I'm not going to _make_ you do it – I just said that I'd _like_ for you to do it. We all have things in life we'd like that we don't always get, I'm a big girl and I can accept that. This is just an exercise in opening up the lines between the two of you – there's an opportunity here to reconnect with things you both might have lost, and to ultimately be able to reconcile. I'm never going to ask you for it, I'm never going to look at it – not unless you want me to and you show it to me. It's not homework, it's _therapy_. You either want it or you don't, the choice is up to you. It's the _choice _that I'm presenting you with."

He removed the pencils from the plastic package while she spoke. They were red, blue, yellow, and green – adorned with crosses and little alpha fish, obviously from a Christian store. And, of all things, as if he suspected _anything _less from the woman, they were fruity scented. He wondered if this most recent affront to his manhood was reminiscent of having a grandmother…

"There's only one problem. There are rules, and it would make me very sad if you didn't follow them as I am, myself, being held to the same standard. So, I propose we make a deal." She held out her hand while she made her recitation. "In exchange for the _promise_ of complete and total discretion and the utmost respect for the privacy of the sensitive material potentially housed within this notebook, it and its corresponding pencils _must_, while not in use, remain in the possession of either Officer Harriman or whomever is on duty at that present time. The good Officer," she raised her voice to be certain she was heard, although she never really had a doubt, "will also _promise_ to uphold the integrity of these items as I would myself and faithfully relinquish them to their rightful owner upon request. Are we all in agreement? Consider this another exercise in _trust_."

"I already agreed upstairs…" she heard Bob call from his desk, out of sight down the hall.

"Is this something you can live with, Mr. Sylar?"

As charmed as he was by her gift and by her intentions, he wasn't completely convinced the items would ever see any use. The decision simply didn't make any difference to him.

"Sure." He shook her hand.

"Fabulous!" she exclaimed, taking her usual seat on his cot. "Now then, moving on. As I've stated before, I am treating you for Diss-"

"Dissociative Identity Disorder, yes I know."

"Yes. You know. Well, then. My ultimate goal is to consolidate your aggregate halves into a complete whole. Do not misunderstand – it is not my intention to destroy Sylar or Gabriel any more than I would allow Bob to come in here and shoot off your arms and legs."

"Don't tempt me," he called and was ignored.

"I have a teensy bit more assessment work to do before we can fully enter treatment, but once we do you'll find I have the plan divided into stages. The first is to continue to develop a safe and stable working relationship between you and me. And when I say '_safe_', I'm sure you understand I'm not referring to only _myself_. The second phase we will only enter when you are ready, where we will begin working directly with memories that are responsible for your dissociation. I'd like to work first with hypnotherapy but I am open to alternatives if you find such treatment uncomfortable. The third and final phase is our ultimate goal – identity integration and the acceptance of '_self_'."

A bit of silence passed between them while Sylar absorbed everything she'd just said.

"This is the part where you give me your react-"

"If I have such _freedom of choice_, how come I haven't been given the choice to refuse treatment?"

Maggie spent a few moments blinking before she thoughtfully steepled her fingers to her pursed lips. She carefully constructed her response.

"I have two answers for you. First of all, I would not refuse you the choice, however the United States Judicial System will not release you without treatment. You're sentence could end up being a lot longer than three hundred years – you'd end up spending eternity in a psych ward, which isn't much different from a prison. I don't think it's any mystery that the world views you as a serious threat and is understandably reticent to let you walk free and unchecked to continue murdering its masses. These aren't the things I _want_ to tell you, Mr. Sylar, but I promised you honesty from the very beginning and I won't sugar coat it.

My other answer is actually a question – typically I don't like to answer questions with more questions as I find the practice stereotypical of those in my profession, not to mention counterproductive, but I will make an exception this once." She paused, almost afraid to continue. "What choice did _you_ offer your victims, Mr. Sylar? Would you have allowed them to refuse their deaths?"

Spinning spaceships be damned, she fully expected bodily injury this time. Instead, he took a seat in his usual chair and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring. Eventually, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in defeat.

"Like I said before," she stated, a bit more confident with her feet still firmly planted on the floor and no parts of her body turned inside out, "there isn't a physical force that can hold you here. It is truthfully my belief that the reason you remain is because there's something about this you _want_. You know there's something wrong, and you know there's a life you'd rather be living that you haven't been able to piece together on your own. Maybe it'd be worthwhile to," she picked up the notebook and pushed it into his lap, "think about all of it and _write it down_."

He lowered his gaze to the collection of blank pages covering his thighs. He felt her warmth as she knelt down beside him, bracing herself on the back of his chair. To get this close was an amazing leap of faith – few people ever got this close to him and lived to tell about it. She reached out and opened the notebook presenting him with blank, blue-lined pages.

"It's an interesting parallel, don't you think?" she asked in his ear. "Blank pages, just like you."

_A clean slate_.

"Can be anything you make it," she continued. She tapped one finger on the gleaming white paper. "I think this is what you want. And there's nothing wrong with that." She tucked a finger under his chin and turned him to face her. "I want you to trust that I can help you do this. I want you to trust that I am not going to give up on you. Can you do that?" Her spaceships belied the seriousness of her tone by swinging in wild circles toward each other when she'd tilted her head.

Despite the silliness of her appearance and the levity it brought, he was still a bit confused, and maybe a little angry. He didn't want to kill her anymore, though, and that had to count for something.

~*~*~

"Why are you so nice to him?" Bob asked as he led her to the elevator. "That man has no compunction for the sanctity of human life."

"I'm fully aware of the inhumane acts he was charged with, Officer Harriman. I'm not here to dispute those facts. However, it is a common misconception that healing ends with the families of the victims. _That man _bears wounds that are directly responsible for his actions. To treat him inhumanely serves no purpose – what example can he draw from that for proper human behavior? How can hostility heal anything? How can we show him _how_ to live?"

They'd reached the ground floor and the door. She turned to him one last time before she left for the week.

"Heal the wounds, heal the man, stop the killer. I'm not going to say it's that simple – it _never_ is – but that is the code by which I live. I'm also not going to say it's always easy to do – there is real evil out in that world and there are times when it is truly difficult to remain objective. But we are all God's children – we are _all_ lambs, and some of us are just a little lost."

With that she bid him good day and left. He watched her blinking lights twinkle out of sight. He wondered what she'd bring the next time.


	4. 4 The Liontamer Part Two

**A/N: Whee the saga continues! This chapter introduces confused!Sylar. After all the brains he's jacked with, isn't it fitting someone jacks with his? I think he even says so much somewhere in here. And the elusive and rare paper!Claire makes an appearance. Hmmm... lonely prisoner... has hot paper girl... in his cell... possibly late at night... uhhhh...  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**4) The Liontamer – Part Two**

… **Still More Trust…**

Truth be told, he'd had worse meatloaf. The mac & cheese, however, was disdainfully dry, and the mashed potatoes were obviously instant. Fortunately, he'd never really had an aversion to instant. He was just happy to be _hungry_. The fact that'd he'd spent two decades eating as little as possible was a testament to his rebellion against his circumstances. He _ached_ for his own kitchen and a trip to a farmer's market. Hell, he'd even suffer through a syrupy sweet Riesling or a generic Zinfandel if it meant he could have a glass of wine. But then that crazy old hag had showed up with cookies – real, homemade cookies, the bitch – and ended his fast in the same way a stubbed toe could break a monk's ancient vow of silence. He pushed some peas around while in thought, but instead of continuing to play with them, today he scooped some up and ate them.

_You. Could. Just. Leave._

His words. Hers. They tumbled over each other in unison through his consciousness – the sinister voice of temptation muted by the angelic lull of honor and integrity. She _trusted_ that he wouldn't leave, and he knew that she was right – right about everything. He did come here for a clean slate, he did come here to fix what was broken – _if it could be fixed_. Maggie seemed to think it could. He wasn't similarly convinced, but she sure seemed to want him to trust her.

He could feel the heat of someone's stare emanating from his right. He looked up at the approach of three men. They were all clearly of Hispanic descent and corded with sinewy muscle – if Sylar were not who he was, he'd have every reason to be nervous. The leader – heavily tattooed with a shaved head – spoke.

"You up from the loony bin, man – in the basement?" The trio came to a stop and stood across the table. "Know what kinda guys they keep down there? Rapists. _Child molesters_. M'thinkin' you must be one of 'em, right?" He sat down at the table while his companions flanked behind him. Sylar suspected they were in on drug trafficking charges, or maybe petty larceny. Maybe one of them shot someone, who knows. He was certain, however, that none of them really knew anything about super-powered killers with mental illness, or else they'd be across the room ignoring him like everyone else. "The others, they talk about _you_. They say, '_leave him alone, he dangerous_.' Look around you – everyone here is _dangerous_. Don't see anything special about _you_."

Sylar laid down his fork and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. With great patience, he pushed his tray away and clasped his hands in front of him. Unfortunately for _them_, these gentlemen now had his full attention.

"Lemme tell you about my little cousin," the man continued. "She never went anywhere without pigtails – she was six years old. Loved nothing in the _world_ more than a little blue bear. She disappeared and was found two weeks later, naked and raped. And _dead_. Guys like us?" He motioned to take in everyone around them. "We don't do shit like that, man. And we don't _like_ guys who do shit like that, you hear me?"

In all honesty, Sylar'd been cooped up in a cage long enough he was probably a tad too eager to '_stretch his legs_'. Or maybe he'd let a little surging testosterone get to his head, he didn't know. But he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"So, tell me, did they ever catch the guy who enjoyed your '_little cousin_'?"

Sylar barely had time to stand and get away before the table tipped over. The man already had one foot perched on its edge using it to propel himself through the air, his face contorted in a vicious battle cry, but his fingers never got the chance to make their purchase on the tender flesh of Sylar's throat. All three men were launched in different directions to crash into walls and tables and chairs and people. One of the men didn't move after he landed. The other had a visibly broken arm. The leader was dazed, blood pouring from a fracture in his skull. Every eye in the great expanse of the cafeteria hall turned to face him. Sparks inadvertently leaped from his fingertips to chase each other across the floor until they disappeared. For a split second the room echoed with an unnatural silence before a pack of uniformed officers appeared from every which way to encircle him, firearms drawn. Bob was among them, face blank, duty being performed.

"On the ground, Sy" he directed, using the nickname he knew he abhorred. "Face down, hands behind your back."

He hesitated.

"Buddy," Bob continued, "you know this is just a formality. We all do. You want this shit to keep happening to you? Then keep drawing attention to yourself and toss the _rest_ of us like rag dolls. Or, you can just let me slip these harmless little cuffs on you and remove you from this situation. Let everyone calm down."

He took another glance around at everyone waiting to see what would happen. Suddenly he felt like a politician, being asked to put on a show for the good of the population. He nodded and lowered his body to the ground like he was asked, but not before he noticed one man sitting several tables away. He sat hunched over his tray with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, painstakingly trying to make himself invisible. He ate as quickly as he could, while no one was paying any attention to _him_. Sylar could see there was something plainly wrong with the man – something wrong with his _brain – _could feel it like a clock half a minute too slow. He was from the loony bin too – probably guilty of some unspeakable horror. As Sylar pressed his cheek into the cool tile and crossed his wrists at the small of his back, he studied the man, allowing his natural ability to feed him information. His mind was knotted and tangled like a ball of yarn a kitten had made into a toy, or a wad of Christmas lights freshly retrieved from its year-long hiatus in the attic. It would take _forever_ to work out that mess – probably longer than his lifespan would allow. He could receive treatment for the rest of his life and still die a very sick man. He'd never see freedom again.

But what if he _had_ forever? Would there be hope for him?

Bob clamped the metal around his wrists then pulled back on his shoulder to get him to his feet.

"It's funny," Bob said in his ear as he guided him out of the hall and down the corridor toward the elevator. "Usually for actions like these we take away recreation time spent outside. But you… couldn't get _you_ out there if I _hog-tied_ you. Human beings _need_ sunshine, you know…"

Sylar didn't answer, he had too much racing through his mind. The only thing he said, as they'd stepped off the elevator, was, "I think I'd like the notebook today, Bob."

~*~*~

This time Maggie wore nothing unusual, but one of her cheeks was bulging with the roundness of a lollipop, the white stick protruding from between her lips. She also carried a paper grocery bag, contents – as usual – unknown. Oddly enough, she made no protest, handing Bob the bag before he had the chance to ask for it.

"Everything I brought with me will be leaving with me today. There's nothing harmless in that bag, Officer Harriman."

It was Bob's job to inspect the bag, despite her assurances. Inside he found a tablet of construction paper and… several pots of fingerpaint – all different colors. And another lollipop, still in the wrapper – cherry, the universal favorite flavor.

"Maggie… is this gonna make a mess I'm gonna have to clean up?"

"We're not children, Bob, we're responsible adults – we're not going to be _flinging_ anything like _wild baboons_…"

Bob smiled at the picture that put in his mind as he led her to Sylar's doorstep.

"This is for you," she told Sylar once Bob had left them to their work. She retrieved the lollipop from the bag and presented it to him like a doctor who'd just delivered a vaccination to a child who didn't cry. Sylar would've felt mildly insulted… if it hadn't been _cherry_ mmmm…

"Whathit for?" he asked, trying not to drool red, artificial flavoring as he spoke with his mouth full.

"I heard a wild rumor that you not only made use of your notebook _but_ _also_ sat down and ate a full meal, and on the _same day_. I'm very proud of you."

He stopped sucking and waited for her to drop the other shoe – the part about how he _also_ got in a scuffle with three Mexicans – but she didn't mention it at all. He was quite aware that if she'd heard such minor details about that day, then she knew all about the rest of it but _chose_ not to mention it. She was reinforcing positive behavior like she was training a dog. Was that all he was? Impounded because he was too aggressive for anyone to love so she was going to paper-train the evil out of him? Kill it with kindness? He felt a hot, red flush of anger creep into his cheeks. He suddenly wanted to stab her with the white stick drooping from his lips – right through the _eye_… wanted to bash her head against the ceiling and fry her with one good shock and…

"Mr. Sylar, are you alright?"

He was fuming. His shoulders were drawn tight, his fists were clenched, and his breath was coming in short heaves. His eyes were coal black and radiating dark menace. The situation was quickly and unexpectedly escalating out of control. The candy tasted like ash. He was ashamed, embarrassed, and felt like a complete idiot. Only Gabriel could've been so stupid – so _gullible_. She'd placated him with words like '_I'm so proud of you_', something he'd _never_ heard from _anyone_ before – something any moron with _eyeballs_ could guess he'd want to hear – and she'd landed him hook, line, and sinker. She'd suckered him into rolling over and giving in, letting her mold him into whatever she wanted. _Just. Like. That. _He _hated_ being manipulated.

Bravely, she faced him and stood toe to toe, interrupting his meltdown. She placed a hand on either side of his head yet didn't touch him – she captured him with her soft grey eyes.

"What's happening here? What have I said that's made you so upset? Why are you angry?"

A distant voice threw Claire's words back to him from across what felt like a chasm of time – '_Oh, you are definitely angry_…' He didn't want to give her the satisfaction of an answer. He hated her eyes on him, goading him into giving up his secrets. His success was _her_ success – so _self-serving_… He wanted to rip open the bars and toss her out on her ass, but he knew she'd just be back the following week. He could rip off her arms and legs and she'd _still_ come back, like a cockroach… she was never going to…

She was never going to leave him. She was _never_ going to give up.

The room distorted for a split second, becoming a bit greyer, or more two-dimensional – it was hard to describe.

"Sylar?"

He grew suddenly very dizzy and his head was pounding. He reached out an arm behind him and felt for the cot as he sank into it. He kept his eyes closed until the sound of his own breathing stopped rushing through his ears. When he resurfaced into full consciousness, he felt… different.

A soft pressure on the mattress beside him drew his attention. Maggie had sat down and was studying him carefully. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings. He turned to look at her and she saw something in him… her eyes widened slightly and she drew in a surprised breath.

"…Gabriel?"

He nodded at the name – it did feel right.

"Hello… are you okay?" she asked.

He nodded again, feeling somewhat numb and a little tingly.

"What happened? To Sylar? Did he say anything to you?"

"I don't know, he… he just shut down. It's not like him… I've, uh… I've lived my life like I'm watching everything over his shoulder… this is strange…"

"I know it is, I know. Everything's fine – it's just the two of us. Do you know who I am?"

"Yes. You're here to help."

"I _am_, yes. But somehow I've made Sylar angry."

"Yes, and _sad_. He doesn't know how to handle you."

"What is it that he doesn't he know how to handle?"

"_Faith_. He doesn't believe the things you say and he doesn't think you care about him. He thinks you're trying to get rid of him – for _me_. He's scared and he's lonely and he's mad because he thinks you see him as some bad habit that's happening to _me_."

"Hmmm…" She clasped her hands in front of her and nodded gravely. "It appears we have a little more work to do with trust, then." She picked up the bag as she rose to move to the bars. "Officer Harriman," she called, "will you hold this bag til next week? We won't be needing it this session after all."

"You said -"

"I'm quite aware of what I said, thank you. And please bring me the notebook and pencils." After Bob had collected the bag and shuffled off, muttering something about not being a personal supply closet, she returned to sit in the chair across from him.

"What we need to do is -"

"Maggie, he wanted to _kill_ you. Do you realize that? _Really_? The only reason he didn't is because we promised each other a '_clean slate_' twenty years ago."

"So you've developed a contract with each other! That's wonderful! That's a foundation!"

"Yeah, I know, but there's a problem. A _couple_ problems, actually."

"Of course there are. We wouldn't be here without them."

"I know, but they're kinda big. I mean, first of all, he's so convinced he can make himself into this incredibly powerful _thing_ that he's actually…" he laid his forehead in his hand, "shit, he would be _so_ _pissed_ to hear me say this so you _can't_ tell him… but, he's actually become really _fragile, _you know? And second of all, he's got a… a _complication_."

"A _complication_?" Her lips quirked into a smile that bubbled with private laughter. She was fortunate that Gabriel wasn't the kind to take offense.

"He calls it a '_hunger_', but honestly it's so much more than that – it completely consumes him, _drives_ him. He even called it a _thirst_ once, which might be more accurate. I think it's inherited from my father – it's a part of my ability. It's… it's easy to become fixated on an enigma to the point that everything else just disappears – even the difference between right and wrong." He met her eyes with a haunted, hollow look. "It's like, nothing else matters, I just have to know how this _thing _works… even if that _thing_ is a living, breathing person…" He dropped his gaze to his hands in his lap. "You have to know it's not a simple blood lust, Maggie. It's something _innate_, it's worse than an addiction – it's like a _primal instinct_. I don't know how you're going to fix that, and he doesn't either. He's afraid we're going to fail. And I am too."

"Well…" she began, sighing under the weight of such a task, leaning back in her chair to stretch her legs, "while I don't doubt that this '_hunger_' is in fact derived from your ability, I can tell you it is very commonplace for individuals suffering from your disorder to experience behaviors that can be termed destructive, either to themselves or others. My first attempt would be to treat it very much the same way. He wants to try, doesn't he? Wants a clean slate? A chance to start over?"

"Yes, but, the thing is… see, we actually went and _talked_ to my father once. Did you know that? We _did_. Until that day, he just wanted to be what he _was_. He's always just believed that he _is _what he's _supposed_ to be – what I _should_ be."

"And you don't agree?"

"I don't really know. I don't usually get to do a lot of the thinking…" He paused for a moment, in thought. "He is what I _made_ him, isn't he?"

"He _is_, yes, but despite what he feels that _in no way_ negates his existence. I would no more wish to see him gone than I would _you_." She patted the notebook that currently resided in her lap, unopened as promised. "Confronting your father changed his perception, did it?"

"He's afraid he's gonna turn out like him."

"That's a valid fear." She pushed the notebook into his hands. "I promised both of you I wouldn't make you use this, but I cannot suggest more strongly that you _do_. I think it would be an enormous help to tell him that no one's trying to get rid of him, that he's important to us, and that he's _safe_. He needs to hear these things. He needs to hear what's on your mind. He needs to remember you both have voices. I want you both to be able to work together." She set the package of pencils on the cot beside him. "You may do as you wish. I'll have Bob check on you in an hour. As for today, I think we're done here – I'd like to give Sylar some time to calm down and process what's happened, I don't want to push him too hard. We'll pick up here next time, m'kay?"

She stood and straightened her habit before giving him a soft, gentle pat on his shoulder, telling him it was nice to finally meet him. After Bob had released her from his cell and disappeared with her down the corridor, he opened the notebook. Inside was written a simple question.

"_Is there hope for me?_"

It deserved a simple, honest answer.

"_There is. __Don't give up__._"

~*~*~

**Grounding**

She was back again, like clockwork. And Sylar knew a thing or two about clockwork. He could've timed a watch by her faithfulness and timeliness. It only made him feel worse. He sat on his cot leaning on his elbows, staring holes into the floor when Bob stole his attention. He was making a spectacular scene of trying to open the cell door while _not_ tipping over a mug full of steaming hot liquid. Out of reflex he quirked an eyebrow at the wholly impressive feat of athleticism. Telekinetically he could've helped the man, but watching was more fun.

"Thank you, Bob. Now, don't forget to blow on that, it's hot."

"Yes, ma'am."

Maggie entered the cell like she was going on lunch break. She carried the brown grocery sack from last time in addition to a large thermos and two mugs. Not giving him an opportunity to balk at her approach, she nimbly stuffed a mug into his hands.

"Now hold it still, this stuff is still quite hot," she directed.

He obeyed as a scalding stream of apple cider splashed inside the ceramic cylinder.

"You seem to think the way to my heart is through my -"

"I'm not here to discuss what happened last time, Mr. Sylar. I can plainly see that you're still uncomfortable and I would prefer you to feel differently. It is your _reticence_ that I wish to address in this session."

"Maggie… I -"

"Does your head still hurt?"

"… uh, yeah?"

"I wish to show you a technique that will alleviate the pain. Put your cup between your feet a moment." He did as she asked. "Now I want you to bend all the way over, put your chest on your knees. With your head hanging, I want you to rest your hands behind it, and gently let their weight tug against your neck. Can you feel the tightness in your neck and shoulders, down your spine?"

"Yes?"

"That's _tension_."

And _that_ was the point she was trying to make. He was _still tense_.

"It's responsible for the pain. It can be dealt with just like anything else."

He could've read a lot more into that. Perhaps that was her intention. Who was he kidding, _of course_ it was her intention.

"The steam will open your head up." She was referring to the cider. He picked up the mug and held it under his nose, allowing his face to become coated with warm condensation. He did have to admit the headache had slightly abated.

"I will say this, then I will leave it," she began, her tone grave. "I am not a novice to my profession. I have seen a lot of illness, I have witnessed multitudes of trauma. I have navigated broken dreams, broken hearts, and broken lives. I have come to expect a lot more than I think you're aware, Mr. Sylar. Regardless of how you perceive yourself, you _are_ a human being, not a disembodied entity, and human beings _feel_ things. I _expect_ your anger, I _expect_ your fear, I _expect_ sadness and distrust and confusion and grief and shame and hostility. I have expected these things from the very beginning and I will continue to expect them long after you've convinced yourself to let them go."

She took a seat in the chair before him and poured herself a mug, pursing her lips and nearly whistling a cooling breeze over the rim.

"Now, at this point all I can offer you are words. I have always expected you to reject them, for at face value, it's true, words are meaningless. However, only time will lend them their worth, and it is my assumption that time is something of which you have a healthy abundance. Fortunately for us both, I am capable of matching your time with patience, for they are both limitless. When I tell you that I'm proud of you, it is not my intention to patronize you or treat you like a doll or a pet. It _is_ my intention, however, to entreat to you to take some pride in yourself and your own accomplishment. Given time and patience, it is my sincerest wish that you will come to believe what I'm telling you."

She slurped a tentative sip, testing to see if the surface was cool enough to drink. He did the same. He looked up when he felt her gaze on him. She held his eyes for a long stretch before she leaned toward him, staring directly into him. She laid him bare before her, seeing in him all the things he couldn't hide: the killer, the victim, the man, and the boy. His power and his weakness. The strength of his convictions – the fury of his awesome wrath – and the façade they provided, shielding a throbbing, aching fragile hurt. Before he could shyly duck away from her scrutiny, she spoke again.

"Everything _is_ going to be okay."

Not trusting his voice to speak, all he could do was nod and take another drink. Her demeanor shifted instantly and she smiled hugely as she dived into the grocery bag.

"Now, the other goal of this session is to address your proclivity towards destructive behavior."

"I was kinda wondering when that was gonna come up…"

"Not only do I wish to integrate your two aggregate selves, but I'd also like to see you succeed in your quest for a clean slate. And, of course, your ability to _ever_ be granted amnesty from the judicial system by which you are incarcerated is wholly dependent on your success in this endeavor. Meaning… we have to get you to stop killing people."

"_Naturally_…" he began, glancing at the plastic multicolored pots emerging from within the wrinkled bag, "this process would involve… _fingerpaint_…"

"Do you have a better solution, Mr. Sylar?"

"… you could _beat_ me…" he said, taking the piece of construction paper that was offered him.

"I took an oath I will not contradict. I suspect you can relate," she glanced at him meaningfully from the corner of her eye while she arranged the pots of paint beside him. "And that includes restraining from physical violence."

"An oath as a doctor?"

She made a grand gesture to her apparel.

"I should think it would be more obvious than that…"

"Right. Maggie, what on earth am I painting?"

"_Before we get started_, I need to tell you there is the potential that this could become unpleasant, but should that be the case I will halt the activity and not allow it to progress."

"I can handle it, _what am I doing_?"

"We are creating an escape route," she said as she smacked the hand that was already opening the red. "_Pay attention_. We are establishing what's known as a safety or a _grounding_ mechanism."

"Maggie, my fingers are still _dry_ -"

"I want you to think of your earliest _pleasant_ childhood memory. Ignore any _un_pleasant memories for now – we'll deal with those later – think only of a time when you were young and happy."

He chewed his lip while he rubbed the back of his neck, pensive. His hand came around to brush fingers through his hair – an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact as it spilled back across his face in dark strands. He drew in on himself a bit and brought the hand down further to rub at his brows. The headache had come back.

"I suspected this might not be easy."

"I'm _alright_."

"If you don't say it, I'm going to ask it."

Both arms crossed over his chest defiantly but the sigh that escaped him betrayed a private turmoil.

"You can't -"

"I don't _have_ any," he admitted begrudgingly. "Maggie, my childhood is a complete _blank_ except for -"

"Don't!" she warned. "Don't even mention them, _those_ memories. You don't have memories of your childhood because _Gabriel_ has them."

"_Him_ again…"

"Yes, _him_ again – this _is_ about _both_ of you. He needed you to conquer his fears, and now you need him too, to conquer this hunger. Why don't you ask him to show you some memories?"

"But…ughh, this is stupid. I don't even -"

"It's _not_ stupid. Close your eyes, sit back, _relax_, take some deep breaths, and _ask him_."

Knowing that no matter how long he kept his eyes closed she wasn't going to give up and go away, or magically disappear through any other means, he gave it a reluctant attempt. It wasn't _entirely_ that he didn't want to talk to Gabriel… he was just really damned certain he wasn't going to like what he saw. It was a reminder that he was nothing more than a figment of an interrupted imagination – a coping mechanism. He wasn't _real_.

The dark became a bit more encompassing, the ambient light behind his eyelids drifting away like a receding fog. The floor lost contact with his feet and for a moment he was floating. He would've been alarmed if he wasn't Sylar, but few things alarmed _Sylar_ because that would be just _silly_. And he certainly didn't jump _at all_ when he felt what he would describe as a puff of breath on the back of his neck, just over his right shoulder.

'_Here, see this_…'

His blank, black surroundings exploded with light, like walking through a doorway into a blindingly bright sunshiny day. All around him, colors swirled and began to take form. Something was bumping against his cheek. When he reached to push it away, he was surprised by its silky feel. The dreamlike sky above him was brilliantly blue with feathery white clouds weaving high through the atmosphere. The day was comfortably mild, a cacophony of birdsong rang all around him – definitely springtime. He held, pinched between his fingertips, the object that had been tickling his face – it was a large, red, sweet-smelling blossom. He was surrounded by them, and they towered over him. They were either really tall or he was… little. Yes, he was _little_. At the same time he made the realization he could hear a soft humming coming from his left.

All he could see of her sticking out of the flowerbed was her lower half, folded to rest on her knees, wearing jeans, a red shirt, and an apron. A graceful, long-fingered hand emerged from the kaleidoscopic blooming expanse to catch hold of a small bundle of marigolds ready to be put into the ground, her tune floating on the breeze… what was it? It was old… before her time even – '_Earth Angel_' maybe. Fitting. After a few firm, deliberately well-placed motions he saw the same hand, this time dripping with dark, crumbly soil, snaking toward him out of his periphery between the stalks of the tall, red flowers. Her muddy fingertips brushed against his abdomen and he heard her croon something…

"Who's my angel, hmm? _Who's mommy's angel_?"

His entire body jerked and spasmed with mirthful laughter as his mother's hand tickled his belly relentlessly. He was hopeful he was young enough to be wearing a diaper because he was probably going to need one. And then it hit him – he couldn't remember a single time in his entire life when he felt this warm, safe, and completely filled with unabashed joy.

He blinked his eyes open when he felt himself being shaken. He was suddenly back in the basement of a federal prison and a crazy nun was pushing a handkerchief into his face – he felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach.

"I had hoped this wouldn't be an unpleasant experience but I appear to have been mistaken. You have my apologies."

He heard a large wet drip, and he looked down just as the tear that left his chin splashed against the paper in his lap, diluting and swirling the paint with which it came into contact. He almost brought his fingers up to touch the wetness on his face when he discovered them covered in various colors and still quite gooey. He hadn't been aware that he'd painted anything, yet staring up at him from the tops of his thighs was a big red flower and a circle enshrouded by what looked like long, black hair. The circle was obviously intended to be a face, yet it lacked any features – it was completely blank. Sylar swallowed against the knot in his throat. He rejected the handkerchief, but used the backs of his hands to wipe his face.

"That's not the only one," Maggie told him, grabbing his reluctant fingers and using the white cloth to remove the drying paint. "You also did these."

She paused to hand him two more pieces of paper. The first was covered with a complex system of circles comprised in various sizes and colors. They all exhibited different attributes that made it seem as if they were working together for a common purpose. It only took a few moments for him to decide he was looking at the inside of a beloved timepiece. It made him smile, but he set it aside and picked up the second painting. It bore a face – a much more defined face – with pink lips and big green eyes… and tons of lemon yellow hair… It was too late, Maggie'd already seen him hold onto it a bit too long.

"I understand who the faceless, black-haired woman is supposed to be, but this blonde one, I confess, is a mystery…" she trailed off in an attempt to suggest he should supply an explanation.

It had been over two decades since the last time he'd seen her and even this fragmented, incomplete version of her was enough to make him shudder involuntarily. This was supposed to be a _pleasant_ memory? His last memory of _her_ was a mushy pulp of blood and tissue sprayed over carpet and walls, the largest chunks of her regenerating on a cookie sheet on the kitchen table… and before that there were the times she'd practiced making similar art out of his _face_. And what had she said? '_No one loves you, no one ever will._' Yeah, that's really fucking pleasant…

"She's…" the word slipped out of his mouth accidentally, and now he was committed. He sighed in resignation. "I, uh… I hunted her." He set her painting aside and leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out before him, placing his hands behind his head. "I don't know what else to say, I mean, I wasn't very nice to her? Does that even cover it? She couldn't be hurt, she couldn't get sick, she was never going to die and I _wanted_ that. Couldn't get it out of my head, like a song that gets stuck, you know? She was so young and sweet and I drove her like a herd of cattle until I got what I wanted. I don't really know why she ran from me so hard, I mean, we _both knew_ she was going to live through it… what was the big deal? But no. That would be_ too easy_. No, instead I ended up killing both of her real parents - who, honestly, she really didn't even _know_, right? And as it turns out, her real dad was this _really_ huge hypocritical _asshole_ hell-bent on locking up people like us just because we're _different_ – so, I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't a mercy killing. Anyway, long story short, boy chases girl, girl gets pissed off and swears revenge on boy, _girl_ chases _boy_, boy lets girl punish him, things between girl and boy get... _complicated_. Girl and boy promise each other a clean slate, boy goes to prison and meets a crazy lady who's trying to turn his brain inside out which is _way_ more than mildly ironic and would thrill girl _to_ _death_ if she were here. And could die. Which she can't. So she'd just be thrilled _almost_ to death."

Maggie quietly absorbed what he'd said while sizing him up with an amused, knowing stare that made him moderately uncomfortable. She gave a small laugh and clasped her hands in her lap.

"You're in lo-"

"Don't you _dare_ say it." All of the muscles in her face seized with an unseen force the instant he reflexively shot an arm toward her, clamping her mouth shut. "Don't even _dare_. Seriously."

"I won't," she responded once released, "but I will say _this_ – she obviously bears some significance to you, whether you want to admit how much or not."

"Sure. Fine. Whatever. What am I doing with these dumb paintings?" He was becoming irritated.

"They are grounding mechanisms -"

"_Right_ so what's a -"

"If you will _listen_, I will _explain_. Have you ever heard of the art of divination, Mr. Sylar?"

"Isn't that a little superstitious for the Catholic -"

"When it means '_inspired by God_'? Answer the question, please."

"Right. Divination. The art of foreseeing the future or something. I've known people with this ability, it's -"

"_More importantly_, it's the art of taking an object and making it one's sole focus, and using that focus to draw interpretations. What I'm going to ask you to do is very similar. In subsequent sessions we are going to start dealing with this issue of '_hunger_' and we're also going to start investigating memories that I suspect are to blame for your fractured psyche. As I've said before I'm going to attempt hypnotherapy as I've had great success with this medium in the past. There will be times, however, when you will experience… some increased _difficulty_ with the subject matter. During these times, these grounding mechanisms – these more pleasant memories or _icons_ in your life – are to be used as your focus, or as a common ground between yourself and Gabriel. A safe place, or an escape route. A place for congregation and self-reflection – a way to pull _away_ from the situation, to regroup and calm down. Am I making sense?"

"Yeah."

"During our next session I think you will understand better, as I'd like to try getting our feet wet and make our first venture into hypnosis. Is this something that discomforts you?"

"I don't really -"

"I need you to know, before we do Mr. Sylar, that there is the possibility I could learn something very private and intimate about you. It would be unwise to take this step if I don't have your _trust_. You must also know that there is nothing that you could say or do, regardless of your past prior to this point, that will shock me, disappoint me, or deter me. I took an oath to my cloth long ago to banish pre-conceived notions, and I came to your case with no -"

"Maggie." He took a breath before sitting up and leaning forward, dropping his hands between his knees. He gazed up at her from beneath his brow. "I'll be fine. It's okay. You've got more to worry about than I do, really."

"How so?"

"I'd be more concerned with what I might do to _you_."

"Mr. Sylar," she laughed as she stood, ready to take her leave of him for the day. She gathered all of her things then motioned to Bob through the bars. "I think we've already discussed this. Unlike _you_, I don't have any trouble putting my faith in you, otherwise I wouldn't be here. Now then, as always, I still suggest you use your notebook and communicate with Gabriel. Let him communicate with _you_. See what else he'd like to show you, and think of what you can give to _him_, other than fancy abilities and an increase to his self-esteem."

Sylar didn't really feel like talking to the mama's boy loser anymore that night. He'd had enough sentimentality in the past hour to last a whole week, but that didn't manage to stop his eyes from gravitating toward the paintings still lying face-up on the cot. He recognized that they bore a singularly important function, he didn't think Maggie would go to all this trouble just to _lie_ to him, so why was he suddenly feeling so defensive? Fancy abilities and an increase to his self-esteem? Was she _kidding_? What the hell! He was _everything_! He was… no. No, he wasn't. He _wasn't_ the same as Gabriel, they were completely different. They weren't even _close_ to similar! He was _everything_ Gabriel wasn't! Wasn't he? What did that even mean? Why was this even a question?

Why was he so bothered? He flipped the paintings over and ached for anything else to do, any kind of distraction. Things of that nature were a little tough to come by in a jail cell.

He plopped heavily into the chair and pressed his palms against his forehead. His headache had returned. He leaned forward in the same manner Maggie'd had him try before, pulling against tight, tense muscles, willing them to relax.

This was _Gabriel's_ body. This was Gabriel's _life_. Gabriel had all the memories. Gabriel held all the cards. He and Maggie would find out all about Gabriel, but who was _he_? '_Fancy abilities and an increase to his self-esteem_.' He felt like so much more than that – he wasn't really _that_ insignificant, _was he_? What the fuck! That was what Gabriel _needed_ him for in the first fucking place! An instrument, a _tool_, to make him better – to make him special, to make him _wanted_. How did _this_ fucking happen? He was more – he was _real_!

He stood and levitated the chair, ready to smash it into the bars, when he was caught off guard by a body standing on the other side. It was Bob. He held the notebook and a pencil. He looked… a bit nervous. And pale. Of course, who wouldn't be when confronted with a murderous and mentally imbalanced telekinetic serial killer who was levitating a large wooden object with the very obvious intention of flinging it near the speed of sound in the general direction of his head? Bob swallowed before he spoke.

"Maggie said you might want this." He slid the items through the bars. "I'll be back to check on you in an hour."

The chair hit the ground with an echoing clang that Bob ignored. Sylar wanted to see that damned notebook burn, didn't want to give it or anyone else any more pieces of himself. But he had a question. He had a question he wasn't going to voice and like a hunger for a new ability it wasn't going to go away. It was like a piece of something sharp jammed between his teeth, too stiff to dig out. It was going to need to be addressed. The notebook and pencil leaped from the floor to land in his outstretched hand, pages fluttering. He wasn't sure he was ever gonna give that jackass Gabriel the chance to see it, but he was going to ask anyway, just in case. He backed himself up against the far wall and slid down it to sit on the floor, knees drawn up. His anger dissolved at the sight of his own writing.

'_Don't give up_. _You're real to me and I need you more than you know_.'

But he _wanted_ to know. He wrote with such force he nearly broke the lead tip.

'_Who am I?_'


	5. 5 The Liontamer Part Three

**A/N: So... this chapter ended up a bit harsh. Have you ever written something that was harsh enough to just stick with you? To the point where you just kinda have to put it aside for a night to take a break? That was this chapter. But, I think the hard part is behind us now =D Is there kissing yet????  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**5) The Liontamer – Part Three**

*** _the present_ ***

For the first time in weeks, Claire did _not_ stop to look at the distant, alien view of her home planet on her way into the "office". The evening she'd had prior and the morning she'd just finished were both just too weird for her to feel nostalgic. She felt like the rug had been ripped from beneath her feet. The man in her domicile was the only living person to truly _know_ her, as she'd been in her first life, to know the _real original her_ – to call her by her actual _name_. And she could not claim the same for him. He was just as new as everything else around her, and it disturbed her. It bothered her how eager she was to see his face, hear his voice, smell his smell and feel that old familiar fire burn in her rib cage. She _wanted_ the anger, she _wanted_ the hurt, and she wanted to _want_ to take her kitchen knife and plunge it deep into his neck. She _wanted_ him to fling her across the room and electrify her and she _wanted_ the fight. She _needed_ to have an old, dead piece of her resurrected… she didn't want another person to _learn_, just like everyone else around her, just like everyone around her twenty years from now, and twenty years after that, spiraling off forever into the fathomless abyss of eternity.

Regardless of what she _wanted_, what she _got_ when she woke up that morning was the smell of fresh coffee and… was he making eggs? _Holy shit_. She'd ripped the blankets back and stumbled, groggily rubbing her eyes, into the front living area, careless of her disheveled appearance and Japanese cartoon pyjamas.

"Morning, sunshine," he told her without taking his eyes from what he was doing. "You had some eggs and cheese, I hope you don't mind…"

"What kind of weirdo minds breakfast?" she mumbled, dumbfounded by the artistry he employed as he lovingly and nimbly flipped an omelet in the small pan she'd had tucked away under her little stove top. She blinked in amazement as she witnessed the spectacle before her: this was a man in his element. She, personally, had never been this excited about her painfully tiny demi-range or the dismal contents of her mini-fridge. But he flipped and turned like he hadn't held a spatula in… in… well, _yeah_. The tip of his tongue parted his lips, pressed together in concentration. The man had been a prisoner for over three hundred years, she supposed it wasn't so unbelievable that he'd enjoy the use of a kitchen, regardless of how… unimpressive it was. It probably wasn't so much that he enjoyed cooking (although, for all she knew, he might), it was that he craved the _freedom_ to do so. She was suddenly very ashamed of the world he'd woken up to.

She began to suspect he was cheating with his telekinesis as he made another perfect flip and slid the folded mass onto a small plate. Supplying a fork, he finally met her eyes as he handed it to her. For a moment, she was a little too stunned to take it until he nudged it toward her again. But who could blame her? Regardless of the fact that he'd paid for his crimes, it was still a surreal thing to be served a fluffy, warm, delicious breakfast by the man who… holy crap she loved eggs and cheese. And the omelet was a far better creation than any of her attempts, that usually ended up crumbling into scrambled eggs, or were burnt in the frustrated effort of making something that actually folded. Ahhh, there was the fire. Yes, she still hated him. Her appetite picked up a bit.

He placed the cooking utensils in the cleansing unit then poured two cups of coffee.

"What about you?"

"Already ate. Been up for a little while, I've, uh… had a lot of sleep lately."

"_Right_."

He handed her a perfectly creamed cup before he sank Indian-style in the middle of the floor. He closed his eyes over the rim of his own cup and inhaled hungrily. Probably been over three hundred years since he'd had coffee too. She squirmed a little at the thought of how many pyjama-clad women he _hadn't_ spent time alone with in the past three centuries, as well…

Regardless of her reservations, they'd made small talk and watched the news before she rose to shower and prepare for her work day, thanking him for the eggs. When she'd emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in her robe and toweling her hair, she stole another glance at him as she'd crossed over to her bedroom. He sat, bathed in a pool of light cast by the television, with his knees drawn to his chin and dark brows furrowed. A piece on the growing violence in the mod camps was being aired.

"Claire, I think this is my fault," he'd said plainly as she paused. "This has something to do with the shadow people, doesn't it?" She didn't respond – she was late enough as it was and didn't have time for a long discussion with him on the current life and times. When she re-entered the living area, dressed and ready to make her way to the medical bay, he spoke again, pointing at the screen.

"I was in a camp like that for a short while, right after I got out of prison. There was a man there who told me I wasn't like most of the others – that I didn't _belong_ there. I'm not sure what he meant, but he helped get me and some others out." He turned to look at her. "I'm not gonna lie to ya, Claire, I got in a big _fight_…"

Well, some things hadn't changed… he was nothing if he wasn't _honest_. And she knew what he was getting at. He'd probably killed someone. _Several_ someones. And it was likely in self-defense. She wasn't sure she'd act any differently.

"There's leftover soup, eggs and milk in the fridge," she told him, motioning her hand to the unit, then grabbing her things and heading towards the door, "and there's some cereal and other stuff up in the cupboard. You're welcome to any or all of it. I'm expecting a courier today to get you an I.D. and some walking papers. I promise we'll have a long conversation when I get home."

He fought to suppress an overwhelmed expression – it was the first time it had been verbalized between them that he couldn't stay there, even though they both knew it. He gave her a few slow nods as she left and the door slid shut to separate them. From her doorstep she plodded forward distractedly, replaying every word he'd said to her the night before. Three hundred _years_! In a prison cell, deep underground. Years spent working to rewire his personality. _Personalities_. His sentence had been matched by her own extensive stretch of relative solitude – she wondered briefly if he considered her as changed as she did him. She wasn't sure that could possibly be true. And how bitterly ironic was it that _the day_ after they'd been thrown together after all this time… they'd have to say goodbye?

It was probably a blessing that the man who'd been her nemesis had become a complete stranger.

~*~*~

*** _two hundred and seventy-__seven __years earlier_ ***

**Trauma**

Bob was mad at him, but he didn't care – he wasn't going upstairs to fix their stupid fax machine, no matter what kind of muffins his wife was going to make him. He'd explained to both he and Maggie a million times his reasons for staying underground as much as he could.

"There're people out there like me," he'd said, "with abilities, but not exactly like mine. I knew a little girl once who had a very dangerous ability – she could find anyone, _anywhere_ – anyone who wasn't dead, in fuckin' space, or _underground_. Your dumbass fax machine isn't worth risking my life, thanks."

So, now Bob was grumpy. He knew he was going to hear it from Maggie too: "three hundred years in a hole underground isn't good for the _mind_, young man, and I don't appreciate you trying to undermine my exhausted efforts – you get your scrawny _butt_ outside and get some sunshine and socialization!"

Well, they could all just kiss it. They didn't understand, and he'd long ago stopped expecting them to. He ignored Bob ignoring _him_, grateful for the peace and quiet, while he crossed his legs to sit on the floor, leaning back against the cool concrete wall. He practiced the breathing methods he and Maggie'd been working on for the past three years to place himself in a meditative state. This was an activity that had become a daily routine – it was a part of his life. After a few breaths he was no longer aware he was still breathing, as the object of his uncompromising focus came into view. Before him grew a red blossom. That blossom became several that surrounded him in a circle. Those blossoms became several more, which became several hundred. Before long, he found himself in a wide, sunny field of red flowers, patiently awaiting the arrival of his visitor.

In the distance ahead of him he heard a soft giggle, and saw a rustling in the blooms betraying the presence of his companion. After a few moments a flushed little face peeked into view followed by the body of a small boy who came to sit cross-legged before him, mimicking his posture. He was out of breath and wearing a backpack.

"Hi!" the little one smiled.

"Hello, Gabriel. How are you?"

"I'm alright." He absentmindedly chased a bug – a pretty metallic green beetle – with nimble fingertips. It flew away on a soft, warm breeze. "But I think Maggie's gonna talk to us about mom today."

"You think so, huh? Does that scare you?"

"Yeah, a little…"

He remembered the day he'd first seen Gabriel as he'd spoken to him. It hadn't been long after he'd painted the flowerbed, and Gabriel had reached out to him through their shared notebook - an item they no longer required. Sylar had been suffering what Maggie had termed "a form of depersonalization", and was in a state of crisis. He hadn't wanted to talk to his other half – he was fiercely jealous of the affection Maggie held for him, and felt threatened. Truthfully, he was bitterly desperate for a way to eradicate him in order to make himself feel more _real_, regardless of the fact that what he'd actually be destroying was an extension of his own self. He was as turbulent inside as a viciously cold body of water encased in a layer of paper thin ice, a scarcely-contained tragedy waiting to happen. Maggie, fortunately, was very good at treading softly, and Gabriel ended up being a pretty damned good bridge.

There had been a night, though, when he'd been too mixed up to sleep and he'd decided perhaps it might not be a bad idea to sink back into that place where his mother had held him – perhaps he could even see her face this time, _remember_ her. But when the flowerbed rose around him, she was nowhere to be found. He was met, instead, by a vaguely human-shaped blur or distortion of the surroundings. The smudge of color coalesced into the body of a small boy, clutching tightly in his hand a chaotic little bundle of sticks. Sylar had been alarmed but curious, inching closer to the boy to investigate why his subconscious had dug this thing up and spit it out in place of the comforting arms of his mother – and there had better be a damned good reason. The boy's features were hard to read, shifting and moving, making him difficult to recognize at first but Sylar had eventually been able to see him plainly smiling with an open invitation. He'd been sitting on his knees in the grass, bobbing and weaving the sticks in a playful childlike dance, animating and anthropomorphizing the objects within his own imagination. He sung and cooed at them nonsensically.

"Play with me, Sylar," he chimed, and suddenly his face zoomed into sharp focus. Sylar was looking at _himself_. No, _not _himself, not exactly. He knew who the boy was. "Don't be sad. You're my friend – come play!" He reached across and tugged at his pant leg. Slowly he knelt before the boy, who then handed him over the wad of sticks. Accepting them, he turned them over in his hands and came to the determination that they were actually the remnants of a crude doll. His eyes glossed with tears as he voiced the question to which he already knew the answer.

"Who is this?"

"He's _you_!" the boy giggled as if to say '_silly_'. "I made him! He's awesome and has super powers, he can do all kinds of things, you wouldn't even believe it. He can shoot lightning and stuff, and pick people up and throw them – see!" He snatched the doll back and made a series of complex motions with him, lips bursting with the mimicked sounds of explosions and mayhem. His shoulders slumped as he brought the makeshift toy down into his lap. "But I broke him and he got hurt."

Sylar turned just as a tear fell. He caught it quickly, he didn't want to scare the boy.

"Will you help me fix him? I miss him. I'm pretty good at fixing stuff, but I don't think I can do this by myself."

"Yeah, Gabe," he murmured around the tortured knot in his chest, "I think I can help."

Gabriel had _made_ Sylar, made him to be _better_ than what he was, to be this iconic super hero he idolized. But he didn't know how to build Sylar without including pain and a crippling insecurity because he didn't know any better – he'd never known a life without these things. So, he _broke_ – Sylar could see it now, plain as day, like a miniscule drop of water could interrupt the circuit to a battery, stopping a watch cold dead. These were the things that turned a hero into a killer and perpetuated a cycle of self-destruction, circling endlessly inward until the epiphanous moment he realized that no amount of fearsomeness and power was going to make him significant – was going to make him _special_ – when all it did was drive the people he needed further away. The fortress of isolation he'd built for himself wasn't going to make him less of a failure to this little boy, who in turn had failed _him_. A boy who _needed_ him.

If he could fix these things that were broken, Gabriel could guide him and shape him into a better man – be his moral compass – and he could perform the duty Gabriel had intended for him that he'd never successfully accomplished – he could heal the monumental wounds that the death of his mother had left behind to fester and scar.

They could help each other. They could be _partners_. They could be _one_. He _was_ necessary.

Sylar swallowed and wiped the evidence of his poorly hidden emotion on his sleeve before he held his hands out between them.

"Lemme have a look."

It had been a few years since they'd begun to build their relationship, and while the work was slow, it was _progress_. Sylar's introspection had been interrupted when the wind picked up around them in conjunction with Gabriel's mounting sense of anxiety, causing a large, plump blossom to tap heavily against his left ear. He swished at it and leaned forward to get out of the range of its assault.

"Did you bring the doll?"

"Yeah!" Gabriel huffed, the smile returning to his face. He pulled around the backpack and vigorously unzipped its main compartment. He withdrew what looked like a pair of legs constructed completely out of toothpicks and glue.

"He's gonna be tall!"

"Hell yeah!" Sylar dipped into his jacket pocket to retrieve a bag filled to jaggedly overflowing with toothpicks, beneath which rested a bottle of classic white glue and a surprise. "Got something new for him for when we get up to his shoulders." He tossed it into Gabriel's waiting lap – it was a triangle of red felt.

"A cape!" he gasped. "_Yes_!!!"

Sylar watched, bemused, as the child took the item on a few test spins through the air.

"Thank you for being honest with me about being afraid," he told him, gazing at the whipping corners of the red fabric.

"It's no good to lie to yourself," he was answered. Such wisdom from the mouths of babes.

"Well, don't stop. I _need_ it. And I don't want you to be afraid to talk about mom today. I'll be right here. You just come here and I'll take care of you, okay?"

"I will," was his distracted reply as he dropped the "cape" into his backpack and smeared white globs of glue over a finger-pinch full of tiny wooden sticks. All of a sudden, he stopped, looked up, and disappeared. Maggie had arrived.

~*~*~

His eyes fluttered open at the feel of breath tickling his eyelashes. He was greeted by Maggie's face, a bit closer to his own than he'd liked, hovering over him while she sat in the chair. She was smiling like the man in the moon and smelled a little like coffee and chocolate. _Damn her_.

"Why, hello Mr. Sy…" She cocked her head to the side in momentary contemplation. "Hello _Gabriel_."

He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at her. "How do you always know?"

"To be honest? One looks innocent and the other _doesn't_. I'll let you decide who is who."

"Hmmm… right."

"Well, I'm sorry I interrupted. I hope you were having a nice chat," she said as she leaned back, folding her hands in her lap.

"Yeah, he made a cape."

"A what?"

"… nevermind. He's a brave kid, you know. I think he's ready to work on the hard stuff, think he'd like to give it a shot."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. He's gotten very good at grounding, and things between us seem a bit more… cohesive. He doesn't seem to be as spooky and skittish anymore. Seems more secure. Might be worth a shot."

"You know, it's funny – he tells me _you're_ the kid."

"Really? That's weird," he said as he unfolded himself from his position to move to the cot, stretching out across it in preparation for their work to begin. "Is that normal?"

"I assure you, Gabriel, there is no normal. Every situation – every _person_ – is unique. If you were to ask my professional _opinion_, however, I would say this: it is my belief that you both view each other as children because you see each other as something precious and worthy of protection. And, at some level, because you are of child-rearing age, I suspect part of it is also something instinctual."

"_Wow_. So, yeah, _that's_ not creepy or anything."

"No, it's _not_." She paused to give her next question the importance it deserved. "He hasn't mentioned wanting to kill you in a while, has he?"

"Not that I'm aware, no. Not to me, anyway. You?"

She waited until he was settled, with his hands crossed over his chest, before she began.

"No. I think you're _both_ making great progress. I truly mean that, and I would appreciate it if you would tell him."

"I will."

"Good. Now, last time we inspected memories of when you went to visit your father, yes?"

"Yes."

"And everything is still okay?"

"Yes."

"… because Sylar had presented a bit of aggression that had me worried for him."

"Maggie," he replied, taking some deep breaths and closing his eyes, ready to get the show on the road, "I'm pretty sure Sylar's _always_ going to have a bit of aggression towards dad, and I'm not so sure it's a bad idea to _let_ him, I think it keeps him honest."

"Fair enough, I just don't want to see him hur-"

"_Maggie_, we both appreciate your concern, but if we don't get this moving one of us is going to lose our nerve."

"Okay, okay. Fine. Give me your hand." Completely supine, he slid his left arm in her direction allowing her warm, smooth hands to encompass his. Gently she turned the palm to face her, stroking his fingers open, tracing the outline of each the way she always did. She muttered words about breathing and relaxing and letting go, but he stopped hearing her, his mind already following its own well-worn path. This was a exercise in trust and acceptance, allowing him to refamiliarize himself to her proximity before she pushed the "button" she'd placed in the center of his palm – the one that would automatically and instantly place him under her complete hypnotic control.

It had taken many sessions for this part to become so routine. Maggie had fought many battles, flexing her ironclad courage before the howling lion with the thorn in his paw. They'd discovered that, in tandem with the personality disorder, he was also a victim of a secondary condition having to do with anxiety, manifesting in an intense fear of being manipulated or experiencing a loss of control. Getting him to surrender to her the first time had taken no less than an entire year of constant, diligent work. She'd ridden a torrent of different emotions and reactions from him, some brutal, and had survived no worse for the wear – a mouse unafraid of being swallowed whole. The key to earning Sylar's trust, and ultimately his timid and fragile kinship, had been her dogged sense of devotion. In spite of this, it had still been nothing short of miraculous that he'd go so far as to allow her to place a mechanism on him that would provide her easy and immediate access to his most innermost intimate sanctum. It was a testament to the time spent invested in their relationship and reflected his own positive personal growth. When his hand felt heavy, every whispery vibration of tension having left his body through long slow exhales, she tapped her fingertip lightly on the not-quite-fictitious button and he fell away to oblivion to dangle only by the silver thread of her voice. She took a few breaths to steel herself. Regardless of the journey they'd made to this point, this was still going to be the beginning of something as unpleasant as it was necessary (as most necessary things were).

"Gabriel, I want you to remember the last time you saw your mother."

His hand twitched. She waited to see if she'd need to bring him out before pressing on.

"Does Sylar remember any of this?"

"Just…" his throat sounded a smidge tight. "Just bits and pieces, only once. Long time ago."

"Okay. How old are you, sweetheart?"

"Just turned seven."

"Well, you're a big boy! Alright, sweetie, can you tell me where you are? Tell me what you see?"

He didn't answer immediately, his adam's apple merely trembled a bit as he shifted his head. Then, he whimpered.

"What's happening?"

"I dropped it."

"Dropped wh-"

"He's calling me." His tone of voice had changed – it carried the soft, grave quality of a child in trouble, and not the kind of trouble that earns a grounding. This was _serious_ trouble. A sneaking suspicion sank into her stomach like a brick.

"What's the matter Gabriel? Are you afraid?"

He pulled his top lip into his mouth, held it tight with his teeth.

"Gab-"

"_Yes._"

"Why are you afraid of him?"

He brought a hand up to rub his eye. He rubbed a little too hard. He sucked in a breath and didn't answer. Maggie didn't want to ask the question, she feared the answer, but her duty didn't give her any choice.

"Gabriel, is this the first time you've been afraid of your father?"

He turned his head away from her and was silent a long time. Just when she thought he wasn't going to answer, thinking she'd pushed him too hard and was about to resurface his awareness, he whispered.

"_No._"

_Merciful Mary, mother of God_… She sighed and ran fingers across her brow. She should have known better, and truthfully some buried instinct told her she'd suspected it all along. The gruesome murder of his mother had only been the proverbial cap on the bottle, placing a stopper over a young life boiling and turgid with violence and fear. No matter how much work they'd done, they still had a _long_ way to go. Well, if he wanted to get to the hard part, this was it. It was time to stomp into uncharted territory.

"Sweetheart, I know you were thinking we might chat a little about your mom today, but there's some more I'd like to find out about your _dad_." His fingers twitched again, briefly contracting into a fist before flattening to their original position. "Honey, did your dad ever hit your mommy?"

His entire body jerked. He plunged headfirst through a wall of color and sound. He sat, hidden, for a moment while his head reeled and his stomach turned, his surroundings twisting around him. He might as well have been on an alien planet – nothing seemed real or familiar until it just… _did_, and the spinning stopped. His body was small enough to conceal around the end of the couch, but he could still see the scene play out before him through the kitchen door. He clutched his abdomen at the clear sight of his father, wild-eyed and crackling with energy, hand held high in the air – he grew much more nauseous. He could hear his mother's strangled begging, hiccupping between sobs for breath, could see her feet kick out from someplace high on the wall, just inside the door on the right. She had lost a slipper. Something crashed to the floor, but he didn't see what it was. She was obviously struggling.

Maggie didn't ask the right question. If he had to answer honestly, he'd have to say his father never laid a finger on his mother. But he'd _raised_ his finger to her many, many times.

He had trouble understanding what his mother was saying. His father was angry at her for something he'd done… he'd broken something or lost something. He never wanted him, boy's more trouble than what he's worth. But he was his son, he's just a little boy – little boys do _things_, he can't help it, didn't know any better. He yelled something incoherent – was he drunk? No, he remembered – his dad was prone to uncontrollable rages, times when he was more of an animal than a man. Having a child was something he'd never wanted, and the accidental pregnancy put an innocent life at risk. He bared his teeth wide and squared his shoulders, pulling his elbows back into a vicious roar of a cry before he swung his arm and threw his mother's limp form across the room into the opposite wall, slamming into cupboards that splintered and shattered under her weight. She hit the countertop hard on her way to the floor where she landed unconscious, smearing a trail of blood behind her.

His father stalked into the living room like a predator and Gabriel's bladder nearly failed him. Shadows crossed his face, but didn't manage to hide the hungry gleam in his murderous eyes. Gabriel didn't have a choice – he stayed as still as he could because he was gripped by quivering, paralyzing terror.

"Gabriel, sweetheart, why are you crying?" he heard Maggie's disembodied voice ask him. Where was she? And where was his _hero_? Everything would be okay if he had superpowers. He'd throw the man out into the street and electrocute him until his eyeballs boiled and popped and his brains leaked out of his ears – he'd disintegrate him until nothing remained of him except a nightmare and a few wisps of ash. He'd be _more_ than this sobbing, huddling little piss-stain frozen solid behind the arm of the couch, clamping tightly down on his jaws in an effort not to vomit. He'd protect his mother, and be someone she could be proud of. He'd never break anything. He'd never _lose_ anything. No one would ever be mad at him again. He could shapeshift and be whatever anyone _wanted_ and where the fuck was Sylar?!?! His eyes locked with his fathers' and he knew he'd been found. Bile rose in his throat and pooled inside his cheeks – he swallowed hard. He tried hard to focus on the red flower, tried hard to visualize it in his mind, to make it real, to make it come to life and take him somewhere else – _anywhere_ else – where was Sylar???

"Gabriel – slow down, honey, it's okay – did he hit you too?"

He found it was incredibly difficult to concentrate when he was being flung against a wall. In a split second everything turned black, like a light switch turned off the world, then reality rushed over him as he doubled over the side of the cot and threw up all over Maggie's feet. When there was nothing left in his stomach to wretch he continued to heave dry, silent screams. As he slid off the cot to land his face in her lap she swung him around to keep him out of the puddle. He wasn't the first patient who'd barfed all over her, and she knew it was really only a matter of time. It was, unfortunately, a normal side effect of dealing with trauma. Bob ran over to confirm he'd heard what he thought he had, then dejectedly sauntered off in search of a bucket and a mop, muttering something about shrinks always making the loonies puke then never lifting a finger to clean it up. She knew he meant well, but also recognized she had the harder job of the two. She stroked his back with long, soft, gentle strokes while he convulsed with horror, balled up on the floor using her knees as a pillow, and she hummed an old hymn she'd known since she was a girl.

He'd said everything. He spoke so rapidly, and sometimes the speech of a panicked seven year old is a bit tough to follow, but she'd understood what had happened and a tapestry was woven before her very eyes. She now _knew_ Gabriel. She knew what had happened – _everything._ They could now move on and she could help him heal, help him fix this. Yet she couldn't shake this nagging feeling, or doubt, that somehow she'd failed him. He'd tried to escape, was desperate for his other, and he couldn't. He'd called for him, frantic and lost, and hadn't been heard. The grounding mechanism hadn't worked. He'd become trapped and she'd pushed him too hard. She had been the responsible party and hadn't removed him from the situation before it hurt him. She felt like one of his abusers. She sought solace in her Lord. She prayed that she hadn't obliterated his trust, and that he'd be able to recover – that he'd be able to put his faith in her again so that they could continue the work that they'd put so much effort into. She prayed that he'd be okay.

Unable to leave him, she stayed much longer than she ever had, long after Bob had come and gone mopping around them and over the tops of her shoes, and she held him. She was aware that professionals in her position should refrain from physical contact with the patient as much as possible, but she didn't care. She stroked his back, she hummed words of comfort, and she prayed.

~*~*~

He felt like he was suffocating. He couldn't gasp enough air. Everything was darkness – _everything_.

"_Gabriel, you know, you were born with an incredible gift..._" a voice floated to him from somewhere he couldn't reach. "_You can understand anything. You can fix anything. Fix this._"

He twisted and spun, searching for its source, suddenly desperate for her face.

"I am, Claire – I _am_!" he called to her.

The silent, inky nothingness began to take on a texture, like cool cloth caressing his cheek.

"Who is Claire?" he heard Maggie ask and he lifted his head, instantly regretting the sudden motion as the migraine ground against the inside of his skull and filled his vision with nasty blinding spots. "Is she the blonde you painted?"

"Yes," he answered hoarsely, deciding that mutely nodding would be a bad idea. His mouth was so dry…

"Here," Maggie whispered, sliding a full glass of water into his hands. "You need this."

The crisp chill the liquid left on his lips as it trickled down his throat, saturating the parched tissue, was heavenly. He was halfway through guzzling down the glass when his sense of time caught up with him.

"Maggie… what time is it?"

"Almost ten." She beckoned for him to finish the glass in a gulp then took his elbow to help him into the cot. "I will stay until you fall asleep, then I will take my leave."

"No, it's late, go on home, I'm-" He caught the look she'd tried to disguise behind her eyes. "You… feel guilty about what happened."

She leaned back in her chair, her features suddenly resolute, and performed her characteristic mannerism of clasping her hands in her lap.

"I should have stopped it."

"Maggie, I'm _fine_. Go home, get some sleep. Really, I'll be fine." He wanted a chance to convene with Sylar privately before he drifted off, to take stock of the situation and perform any necessary maintenance with the boy.

She nodded and stood, straightening her apparel as she always did, and retrieved the glass to give back to Bob. She turned to him before she left.

"You are very strong, you know that?"

He wasn't sure what to make of the statement – Sylar'd been called many things that Gabriel'd lived vicariously. It was easy to be strong as a telekinetic, he didn't really see the challenge in –

"And I find it very _interesting_," she continued, "that it didn't take a _single one_ of your super powers for me to see it."

A blazing heat flushed across his cheeks. He sucked on his lip as his eyes shot to the floor. He didn't know what to say, all he could do was shyly nod – he believed her.

Ten years from that night Maggie would still remember walking out of the cell door and down the corridor to meet Bob by the elevator. It was the most crucial turning point in her treatment of the infamous Sylar. Her fear of failure, the horror of her own inability to act, was met instead by her greatest success. She wasn't sure she deserved it, but it didn't matter – he _did_.

"Maggie!" he'd called after her, his face pressed between the bars. "I'm sorry I barfed on you!"

"It's better than being peed on, I promise," she'd returned.

It wasn't the last time he showed her his lunch, either. Unraveling several years of terror, solitude, and neglect – on top of witnessing his own abandonment followed by the decapitation of his mother who was probably the only foundation the boy had ever had – was a repugnant process that, in and of itself, would take several _more_ years.

But it _would_ be done.

His greatest lesson was still to come, however – the acceptance of his own _well being_. Their time together would eventually draw to a close, and he would have to learn how to say goodbye.

~*~*~

*** _back to the present_ ***

Tami eyed the Shadow Man with the same disdain she'd use to appraise perishing meat. She understood the necessity of the black guard – they were like a vaccination, fighting an infection with a small amount of the same infection, keeping the general modular populace under control – but that didn't mean they were _natural_. They were human in shape and biology, but beyond that they were effectually more like machines. They were faceless and emotionless, rigidly following programmed directives like a train follows its tracks. Like mods, they were predestined for exceptionally short lifespans, except they didn't receive the injections the mods did – the shadow men were allowed to expire only to be cloned again and replaced. It was termed "turnover". They were ungodly, as was any life created from man's hands and not the designated reproductive organs, and thus an _abomination_, regardless of the purpose they served.

This Shadow Man was different, however, in that he was somewhat expressive. The thought chilled her as she stared into his blank, black face. The last thing she really wanted to think about, let alone _talk_ to, was an abomination with _charm_.

"And these are all the bodies that were aboard the hijacked vessel?" he had asked her, tossing the end of a sheet over the face of the last one he'd inspected with a lazy flick of his wrist. These were easily identifiable as mod rebels – they checked out against his database – Sylar would've been with these people and yet, inexplicably, he was missing… which meant he could be up and walking and _anywhere_, gaining a head start.

"There was a fourth, he had a weird tattoo with an ancient RF tag embedded. My co-worker took him upstairs to have him scanned by our pathologist for further investigation."

"I see. Do you-"

"I was able to identify the frequency – would that be any help?" she'd interrupted, eager to be rid of him.

_Would that be of any help?_ The ability to be able to track him easily was the best news he'd heard in years – it was just the kind of breakthrough he needed to finally put an end to this exhausting chase. There would be no place Sylar could hide, regardless of who he made himself appear to be. He could run for _galaxies_ and still he'd be beeping out a signal that said '_come get me_', whether he wanted to or not.

"Yes," he replied, "that would be greatly appreciated, thank you."

He waited patiently while Tami retrieved her neural tap reader, subduing the nervous energy that hummed through his tense muscles. He resisted the impulse to snatch the information and bolt, eager to make an immediate scan, pinpointing his location before he could get too far – if he wasn't already. Instead, he watched stoically as she made a mobile note, jotting down the odd mixture of numbers and punctuation, that she then beamed to his fet.

"There ya go. Rosie took him upstairs to see Jesse – he's up one deck – he should still have him. If you hurry, you could probably still catch him before Rosie heads up there this morning to bring him back down."

"Thank you. Your assistance was most helpful."

Now _there_ was the canned spam response she'd expected from the automaton. She breathed a sigh of relief as she watched him turn and leave, taking his icy weird aura with him. Talking to one of them was like talking to a ghost: nothing about the conversation seemed real and their bizarre presence had this odd way of muting all other ambient noise, purposefully making them the sole focus of one's attention. It was just plain _unnerving_ and completely thoughtless. She was glad Rosie hadn't shown up yet. She might've arrived with Mr. Popular Number Four and the Shadow Man would've stayed even _longer_. She was more than aware how much Rosie hated those guys, as well – she made no mystery about it, the way she always seemed to _never_ be where _they_ were when they were on board the station. She mused over her friend's phobia, thinking for once that it might not be so unrealistic.

Like demonic hunters, they were _seriously creepy_. Not for the first time that day Tami was glad she wasn't a mod. She snapped her gloves back into place, rubbed some warmth into her shoulders, and took another sip of her coffee, getting back to work.

**A/N #2: So, I was never really one to buy that Samson Gray just woke up one day, out of the blue, and said to himself, "you know, today I think I'll sell my son to my brother and his wife, then go murder my own wife in front of them in a really public place!" I have to kinda believe there was a little more to it that led up to the actual event. I'm also under the impression that Sylar not only didn't remember the death of his mother before he'd gone to look for his dad, but maybe doesn't remember his childhood at _all_ - partly because Sylar didn't really exist until that point, and that Gabriel had repressed, really, the whole lot of it because, other than the bright point that was his mother, the rest was not always so great. Anyhoo, I think we've made real progress here folks and now we'll start to see the benefit of it.**


	6. 6 The More Things Change

**A/N: Yay! It only took 18 Chapters, but we've finally gotten to *ahem* The Most Important Chapter of the Story. We finalize the Liontamer arc, we explain what's going on (and basically the whole story), AND we get one of our little lovebirds back from a float trip in Egypt, if you know what I'm sayin'. Wheeeee! Is anyone else excited? I know I sure am!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**6) The More Things Change**

Claire prayed that her sharp, surprised intake of air wasn't noticeable. She managed to rip her fet from her purse in the nick of time, just as the Shadow Man entered the lift to go up. With lightning fast reflexes she flipped it open and turned on its holographic projector, allowing the morning news to obscure a clear view of her face as he turned to her.

"Is this your floor?"

No, of _course_ not, she just rode _all_ the way down to the basement for _fun_, and now she was going to ride back up. _Stupid_… but then, they never really did think for themselves.

"Mmhm," she hummed as she stepped out, not trusting her voice and trying to look casual as she fought to keep her knees from collapsing. She leaned against the wall and heaved a heavy sigh of relief after the doors had closed between them and the lift had left her level. She didn't know why she was so nervous – it wasn't like any of them were old enough to recognize a nearly three hundred and twenty five year old _red-headed_ Claire Bennett. But her paranoia had kept her free thus far and it was probably a good idea to keep it that way. She straightened her lab coat and fluffed her hair before finishing her trip to the morgue.

"Mornin'!" she called to her co-worker as she placed her purse in the bin where she kept all of her private items.

"Holy crap did _you_ miss all the excitement," her friend answered as she leaned her head through the doorway leading to the chamber where bodies were kept in cold storage.

"Is there really '_morning_' in space?" Claire asked, trying to change the subject. She knew the excitement had something to do with a certain black-suited individual she'd rather not discuss. She also had a sickening feeling the topic of her clandestine undead roommate might come up.

"One of the Black Guard was just here looking for your tattooed studmuffin," she went on, ignoring her. "Where is he? Thought you were gonna bring him back from Jesse?"

Yup, there it was. Good times.

"Oh, he put him on ice. He's being loaded aboard the _Zephyr_," she lied. "They're taking him to some Intelligence office in the Pisces Sector. They think maybe the rebels are using obsolete technology to pass coded messages or something like that."

"Wow, good call. That's cool, then. I just sent him up to see Jesse."

_Shit_. She was going to have to fake her own death a little sooner than she'd anticipated. This life was starting to become complicated. And just when she'd started getting her space legs…

"You know, it's weird," Tami continued, snapping on a pair of gloves, "I expected to see the Black Guard all over the place with all the colonists showing up here after what happened in Sagittarius," she tilted her examination wand to indicate the body beside her, "_sure_… but don't they usually travel in packs? I mean, at least _pairs_. Don't you think it's weird that a _singular individual_ has this one special purpose? That's just not how I've ever seen them operate."

Claire didn't know what to say, although she was pretty sure Tami'd only ever seen them '_operate_' on television. She'd certainly never been chased by them or hunted by their little machines or had her wedding crashed by entire hoards of them or anything… But it was kind of weird to see just _one_ acting alone …

"To be honest, I don't really care how they operate as long as they're doing it someplace where I'm _not_. Can you toss me some gloves? I'm out."

"Oh, that reminds me, courier came, dropped these off for you." Tami handed her a box of gloves. "You don't have to send out for those, you know – they've got tons of them in the supply ward. I could've helped you get some."

"Oh, it's okay, I kinda had to special order them." Claire could feel her nose getting longer with the tangled web of lies she was spinning. _Fuckin' Sylar_… always coming along and ruining her life. Maybe he wasn't so different after all. "I have circus-freakish tiny hands – supply ward didn't have any small enough." She held up her free hand and wiggled her fingers as proof. "Don't know how I get _anything_ done with these stumps." Tami raised her eyebrows and nodded in acknowledgement.

Claire opened the bin where she'd stashed her purse and allowed the door to block Tami's view. The top of the glove box was still sealed, the perforations still holding the lid intact, however the bottom of the box was a different story. She carefully pulled back on the adhesive where it had been opened to discover an envelope hidden inside. She transferred the secret treasure to her purse before snagging two gloves and closing the bin. Yanking them on and flexing her fingers with the improved fit she turned to the occupied tables filling the room.

"Okay, which of these is the messiest? I'd like to save the clean ones for closer to lunch."

~*~*~

*** _two hundred and sixty seven years ago_ ***

**Acceptance**

Gabriel stood at the edge of a field of red flowers, the sunlight glowing golden through his eyelashes. It was a short hike to the grassy knoll in the middle, the usual meeting spot. He slung his canvas messenger bag over his shoulder and started walking, smiling at the feel of the blooms brushing against his pant legs with soft thuds. Disrupting them scattered their pleasant and peculiar scent into a cloud that surrounded him, embracing his senses as he strode forward on confident feet. When he reached his destination he sank to the earth in tranquility, listening to the chatter of insects as a soft, dry breeze lifted his hair in a loving caress. He closed his eyes and leaned back on his elbows while he waited for his companion. After a few quiet moments he was startled to hear a muted tapping, like a finger against fabric. He slid one eyelid open to see a pale young boy dressed completely in black. He had a strong jaw for his age and his dark eyes held an unnatural sort of wisdom. He was nervously drumming his thumb against his thigh, but that was just Sylar. He wouldn't be who he was if he wasn't fidgety. _He_ was the one with the super-powers, and was their self-proclaimed protector. If Gabriel carried the same weight on his shoulders, _he'd_ probably have a few weird ticks too. In truth, however, while Sylar was still a bit spooky, he was no longer sullen, tempestuous, or angry, and he had become a bit braver about risking his trust which was a big deal for someone like him.

"Hi!" He couldn't help smiling at the boy. In a way, he made Gabriel think of a sort of gothic Peter Pan.

"Hello, Gabriel," he replied, slowly turning to face him and lower his body to the grass. Once settled, he dipped into the front pocket of his black hoodie sweater to produce his bag of toothpicks and his bottle of glue. Gabriel carefully pulled their project from his bag to place it between them.

"Our new Sylar is lookin' pretty good, isn't he?"

"Yeah. Think chicks'll like him?"

"I dunno. I think so. Gonna be a little while before we get to find out, though."

"Yeah…"

He stifled a chuckle to watch Sylar methodically lay groups of toothpicks – exactly ten each – in orderly piles before him, ready to begin constructing his arm. He was working on the right one while Gabriel was tasked with the left. With incredible difficulty, he resisted calling the boy out on his obsessive/compulsive nature. Instead, he protested by pinching up a random clump _without_ counting and began to artlessly slather glue all over them. Was this one of the differences Maggie saw between them? Not for the first time he could see why she found her profession so fascinating. He stopped what he was doing and looked up when he heard a small yet meaningful sigh, and watched as Sylar placed his hands in his lap to wring them with some unspoken worry. It was always the boy's first instinct to be an introvert and routinely had to be reminded it was okay to talk. Gabriel put the glue back down.

"Hey – what's going on? What's the matter?"

Sylar hung his head for a minute, trying to decide where to start, working up his courage. When he lifted his face again, his eyes were wide.

"What's gonna happen to me when we're done with him?" His chin quivered and his eyes took on a glassy, watery appearance. "Am…" He swallowed. "Am I gonna _disappear_?" His chest was heaving – he was desperately trying not to cry. Gabriel crawled on his hands and knees before swiveling his hips to sit next to the boy. He tenderly gripped his thin shoulder.

"_No_, dude, you're not gonna _disappear_ – what do you think we've been doing here? You're telling me you don't think you've changed, not one little bit? You don't feel different at _all_?"

"I dunno… _kinda_…"

"_Kinda_… are you kidding me? You're _totally_ different! Sylar, we've been building _you_! "

"You've changed _too_."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. _That_ for starters." Sylar pointed to the silver chain snaking around Gabriel's neck. Gabriel tugged it out from beneath his shirt, revealing the round, shiny mechanism that hung from it. He held it level and watched as its tiny arrow spun circles around its face before stopping, pointing directly at their inanimate little toothpick golem. Sylar may have had special powers, but Gabriel held their compass – the one that would always point them down the right path. It was their agreement – they would take care of each other.

"Yeah, I suppose I have."

"So what will we do when he's done?" Sylar asked as he pressed close against him in a rarely expressed need for comfort. Without pulling away, Gabriel dug deep into his pocket.

"I was thinking we'd work on this next."

Sylar's eyes lit up with Christmas morning and birthday excitement all wrapped in one when Gabriel withdrew a watch – and old, expensive broken timepiece. He saw his own name etched underneath. He accepted it as Gabriel handed it to him, turning it over in his small but nimble fingers belying a level of experience that was impossible for his apparent age.

"I think we can -" Gabriel started when he heard a voice call from a great distance. "Maggie's here."

"Go ahead, I wanna play with this," Sylar told him, holding it up to his ear and giving it a series of tiny, gentle shakes, listening for the sounds of tiny cogs and wheels that meshed together, _worked_ together.

"Actually, I was thinking we'd go together."

Sylar stared at him blankly.

"… we can do that…?"

"I, uh… I think that's the whole point. I think that's what Maggie's been trying to get us to do all along."

"But… how…?"

"Hell if I know, but with your power and my compass, I don't think there's really anything we can't do."

"But -"

"Here, stand up. Take my hand."

"What about New Sylar?"

"He's not going anywhere. We can finish him when we get done. We still have to decide what kind of head we want to put on him anyway." Gabriel dropped his chin and blinked. Learning to work together _was_ like putting the head on the doll, and what the statue actually represented was the summation of their entire relationship thus far. He _understood_. It was time to try. As if Sylar had just come to the same conclusion, he stood and clasped his fingers within his own.

Gabriel only closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them his consciousness had resurfaced. He was once again surrounded by cream-colored concrete walls and was facing the same barrier of bars, acting as a backdrop for a very familiar black-and-white clad woman seated in her usual spot in his chair. She smiled her same, rosey-cheeked smile. It was then that he noticed the very strong aroma of chocolate.

"Good afternoon, Ga-" she pressed a finger to her lips in contemplation. "Well, now, I may be getting a bit old and rusty, but I'm not really sure _who_ I'm talking to today!"

"We've decided to work together. You can call me whatever you want."

The sudden silence in the cell spoke volumes. Very slowly, Maggie straightened her spine in her chair and leaned almost imperceptibly nearer to him, digging her clasped hands into her lap. She lifted her face and her lips parted slightly in wonderment. Her eyes held him transfixed, spearing him with something warm and trembling and he could feel it begin to swell inside him. It felt like _pride_. She leaned into him even further and beamed brightly.

"As I'm obviously somewhat partial to angels and the like, I think I'll stick with Gabriel if it's all the same."

He nodded his assent and smiled.

Maggie couldn't help but stare at him a little longer. The event was as bitter as it was sweet. It meant that their time was at an end. She was as triumphant as she was heartbroken. While there was no greater joy in watching a long and arduous (and sometimes volatile) healing process come to its full fruition, Maggie had a terrible time saying goodbye. Her patients were often under her care because they _had_ no one else in their lives – had no one to shape them, give them a proper foundation for life, give them proper care and a proper upbringing, give them patience, love, and security. The usual mixture of solitude, neglect, abuse, emotional trauma, and mental instability was a very successful cocktail for breeding the monstrous. Too many times Maggie had been told she'd been the only friend a patient ever had, or that such a friendship was perceived as impossible or undeserved after the crimes the patient had committed. So much was invested in learning to trust, learning to let go of anger and hurt, learning to love, and learning to heal that the act of building any sort of relationship with these people was immeasurably monumental. And it was _everything_ to them – it altered their lives, _saved_ them. They gave _her_ life meaning and purpose. To bring his case to a close and draw his treatment to an end would dig a huge, gaping chunk out of her heart, the same way it did every time. She was amazed she still had a heart left to give.

"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," she told him after clearing the knot out of her throat, deciding not to continue her train of thought. I thought we might enjoy a bit of hot chocolate this afternoon, and I brought you this." She presented a bar of chocolate sporting a big red bow. "It's one of the only things Bob'd let me give you, and he still wouldn't let me wrap it because, even though it's shape was a dead giveaway, it could've been '_anything under that paper, ma'am_'." She smiled a nearly teary smile before tossing him the candy and grabbing her thermos from its resting spot near her feet. "You must promise not to open it until Christmas morning young man!" Gabriel hadn't had chocolate since he'd had her chocolate chip cookies, he wasn't sure he was gonna keep that promise… but he'd try. He accepted a steaming mug and stood slowly, trying not to spill it as he made his way to his cot. He blew across the surface of the liquid.

"What are we working on today?"

"Something new," she told him, and there was an odd tone in her voice that pricked him with a tiny poke of anxiety. He cocked an eyebrow at her as he took a tentative sip. "As it would appear that we're beginning to successfully integrate the two of you, I'd like to move on to the stage of your treatment that I've termed '_Acceptance_'."

"What does that mean?"

"Rather than tell you, I'm going to show you. Drink your chocolate."

~*~*~

Maggie's voice sang like a tiny silver bell just behind his right ear. She'd asked him to stay where he was and he'd obeyed – his surroundings hadn't changed except that he'd become inexplicably alone. He rose from the cot to stand in the middle of the cell and spared a curious glance down at himself. He was surprised by what he saw: his appearance had changed unexpectedly – there was a grey line drawn down the middle of his body. On his right side he was dressed completely in black and his hand sparked with electric blue strength. On his left he was dressed completely in white and held a silver compass. He looked up at the sound of a voice.

"Is there something you want?"

The slim brunette girl on the other side of the bars was familiar. She stepped a bit closer and her name sprang from his tongue the instant he caught sight of her expressive green eyes.

"Olivia." The shifty little ghost girl with the perilously coveted ability. She was the walking definition of freedom – elusive and unencumbered by the need for flesh, she was wholly incapable of being restrained by any physical means. The girl could laugh at all attempts to hold her while she blew away on the very wind that passed from her lips, and the last that could be seen of her would be her fingers still wiggling goodbye. She mocked the universe.

Sylar _hated_ being mocked – hated accusing eyes beating him down and berating him.

"I know there is," she said, "I _know_ I have something you want."

_Freedom_. _But he could leave whenever he wanted to_… couldn't he? _Would_ he?

It had been nearly thirty years since he'd seen the girl, or had seen _anyone_ like her for that matter, someone with a new ability. There was a taste running across his tongue and trickling down his throat, familiar and delicious – a craving as enticing as the chocolate still sitting on his cot smiling up at him with its big red bow. He was stupid to think he'd ever be tamed. His dilating pupils were riveted to her as she dissipated and floated through the bars, teasing them for their inability to hinder her. She re-solidified her body inside the cell, mid-step on her way to confront him. With infuriating daring, she met him face to face and took his right hand in her own, placing it against her temple.

"Take it, _if you can_."

A white hot spark of indignance inflamed his temper, tunneling his vision and narrowing his purpose. Just because she'd escaped him once didn't mean she was _always_ going to beat him – it just meant he'd have to be a bit quicker and a lot more thorough. Her pulse danced next to the sensitive pads of his fingertips, quick as a jackrabbit tensed to run from the clever, unrelenting fox. She was sure to give him one hell of a chase – oh, how he loved this game. He _would_ beat her, he _would_ win, and before she succumbed to him she would have to recognize him as victoriously superior to her. Everything that made her special would belong to him and she would have to see that he was _better_ than her – that she was _never_ going to mock him, _never_ going to beat him. No one was _ever_ going to.

He brought up his left hand, and used them both to freeze her in place, using his telekinesis to feel through her body – every particle of every atom – to immobilize every tiny molecule. She wouldn't slip through his fingers _this_ time. She began to struggle as she could no longer inhale or exhale and she began to panic. The heady cocktail of her fear and his success was intoxicating. Somewhere behind the thunder of his own pulse and the rumble of his harsh laughter he heard a small crash… something had hit the floor and rolled. A voice told him it was important, it distracted him.

He turned from her and scoured the floor with his eyes, roving the tile for the source of the sound. Something glittered under the cot, but the big red bow lying on _top_ of the cot caught his attention first. He knelt before it and marveled over how it seemed to change shape the longer he stared at it – slowly it became a red flower. He recoiled from it slightly, paralyzed by an alarming sense of remorse, yanked unceremoniously from a displaced past to be thrust into the present. A choking gasp returned his focus to the girl, still suspended in the air. A red flower had appeared over her left ear, its long silky petals curving against her skin to the point where they almost crossed into her wide open eye.

His right hand bumped something underneath the cot. He brought it up to investigate, and discovered it was a small, wildly spinning compass. It stopped abruptly and pointed away from him toward the back wall of the cell. He followed its trajectory and fell backwards onto his butt as a figure began to materialize before him. She sat on her knees with her hands on the floor, cupped around a slowly growing blossom, and her raven hair fell forward to obscure her face.

"You're not like him, my angel," she told him.

Every death he'd ever fashioned exploded before his eyes. The room was suddenly filled with a twisting macabre slideshow of bleeding brains and open skulls. Their milky dead eyes bore into him with malice and the flavor in his mouth that was once so pleasant became… something tainted. His mother reached out a hand to him. He leaned to take it, but before their fingers touched sparks arced between them, their blue light casting frolicking shadows across the walls.

"I know he gave you his curse," she whispered, "but I gave you a _gift_." She held the sparks between them, beckoning to him to understand their meaning. "You _know_ what it is, my love."

The sparks mesmerized him. He studied them until… _Elle_. He… he had spent time with her… had opened himself to her… he had taken a leap of faith and had loved her… he had _understood_ her. What had Claire said to him? '_You can understand anything_.' He remembered feeling Claire's bitterness toward her circumstances seep into him before he cut her down… he remembered feeling the palpable fear and maternal desperation to protect a child slither up his spine in a campground once in Oklahoma. He had inherited his father's intuitive aptitude and the feral hunger that accompanied it, but his _mother_ had coupled it with what she'd hoped would've been a compassionate _empathy_.

He was an _empath_, just as she had been, and had been capable of mimicking Elle's ability by simply _understanding_ her and how she used it.

His mother pulled her hand away and the sparks died, leaving him bereft of her warmth but only momentarily as she reached for his other hand, bringing them together. He still held the compass.

"You know what path to take my angel, and it will always be difficult to travel. You will go hungry many times. When you do, fill yourself with my love for I am always with you." She stood and backed away from him severing the bond that soothed him. She meant for him to take care of himself. It was time for her to leave. "It is time to let go of anger and it is time to let go of fear. Talk to the girl. She may become your friend. She may change your life." As calmly and as silently as she came, she disappeared.

He had made himself alone. He had made himself despised. He had made himself his father. He had dug himself a very deep hole and then he'd willingly thrown himself inside. It was time to climb out. He let the girl go.

She collapsed to her side, hysterically sucking massive gulps of air into her wheezing lungs. Instinctually she jerked away from him as he approached her, on his knees.

"Please, I'm sorry," he begged, "I'm _so_ sorry, please don't run… I'm trying. This is really hard for me and I'm _trying_, okay? Please don't cry. Don't run, don't go. _Please_? Please, I'm _sorry_… I… I just want to talk to you, is that okay? Can we do that? Can we just _talk_? I'm sorry… sorry for _everything_ -"

Olivia began to shift – it seemed as if she were trying to disappear.

"No!" he called to her. "Please! I meant what I said!"

But she didn't disappear, she just changed. Her mist swirled and coalesced to become Claire, just as he'd last seen her. She placed one warm hand on his shoulder and smiled a light, like a beacon. A moment passed between his eyes and hers, deeply green pools of comprehension, feathery soft with tranquility. She gave his shoulder a light squeeze and he blinked. His consciousness resurfaced and she was gone.

He rose slowly from where he was lying on his cot, combating a sudden wave of light-headedness. He rubbed his eyes as he swung his legs around the side.

"Maggie, I guess I don't get why -"

The familiar sound of a slide mechanism being pulled back on a semi-automatic hand gun interrupted him. He opened his eyes with trepidation, terrified of what he might see.

Maggie was crumpled against the far wall of the cell, resting on her side, clutching her hand to her heaving bosom. He moved to make his way to her when Bob yelled.

"DON'T!!!" The years hadn't deterred his sense of duty, nor, he suspected, did they deaden his aim. The weapon was held expertly rigid and his eyes were wide with anticipation. He _would_ fire, regardless of the futility. And he wouldn't stop. "Stay where you are!"

"Oh, Bob…" Maggie groaned weakly. Gabriel remained where he sat, unwilling to aggravate an already tense situation, horrified enough that he wasn't certain what to do anyway. "Would you knock it off? You're being ridiculous."

"_Ridiculous_, ma'am? You've obviously hit your head."

"I gotta agree with him…" Gabriel nodded.

"You _SHUT YOUR MOUTH_, you piece of -"

"_Officer_ Robert Harriman!" Maggie bellowed louder than Gabriel'd ever heard her. "As a Matron of this cloth I have asked you for the _last_ time – put that gun down! I will tolerate no more violence!"

Bob snapped the gun to his side, chest pounding and jaw grinding silent curses. He eased the slide back into place, disarming the live round that had entered the chamber. He replaced it into his holster as he stomped away, muttering something about '_your funeral_'.

"Maggie…" Gabriel began.

"Be a dear, will you? Help me up?" Maggie reached for him. With two easy strides he crossed the cell and clasped a hand gently around her wrist, righting her to her feet.

"There, now see?" she said as she straightened her skirts. "No harm done." So why couldn't he help but feel something inside him had shattered?

"What did I do to-"

"Don't," she cut him off. "I know you. You'll dwell on it instead of focusing on the lesson you'd learned. That's not what I want for you. Now, sit. I'd like another cup of hot chocolate, how about you?"

He didn't honestly have the stomach for it, but he couldn't tell her no. The warm mug felt like a peace offering. He sipped in silence a moment before vocalizing his thoughts.

"Maggie, understand the lesson I've learned, but I don't understand what you were trying to show me about acceptance."

"Ahh," she said after swallowing and licking away a chocolate moustache. "Yes, that. My dear, I want you to _accept_ that there will always be a dark part of you. And I want you to _accept_ that, when faced with that darkness again, you will able to set yourself on the correct path. I want you to _accept_ that you can do it."

He turned his gaze down to the tidal ripples moving back and forth inside his cup.

"For many," she continued, "this is the most difficult part of their journey. Some never accomplish this goal, foolishly believing that lingering doubts beget honesty. Personally, I believe lingering doubts are an open gateway for lingering failure. It is a far more beneficial thing to _accept_ that you are healed and are ready to move on with your life. I will not always be here for you, Gabriel, and you will not always be a prisoner in this cell. You _are_ going to get your life back someday, and _you_ will be its master. If I did not believe you could do this, I would _never_ have allowed you to… I would never have placed myself in the situation I created today. I urge you to place the same faith in yourself."

They both drained their cups and Maggie placed them in her bag with her thermos. She stopped before she left and slid a hand around the side of his face, wishing him a Merry Christmas. Later that evening Gabriel and Sylar sat in the grass and cracked open the watch while New Sylar, now complete, stood to the side as stiff and as proud as a trophy.

~*~*~

*** _now_ ***

When his treatment had ended, Maggie had eased the sting of her departure by writing frequent letters, sending gifts, and visiting over holidays. He had been fine with that and it kept him going. He was _not_, however, prepared for her eventual death several years later. He had finally understood where Claire had been, facing the loss of her husband and unborn child. He was bitter over the cruelty of his longetivity and angry at himself for taking it, believing it was probably the biggest mistake he'd ever made out of the _many_ he could claim. But if he hadn't taken her ability he would never have had the time to start his life over – to pay his toll in a jail cell for three hundred years and fix the things that were broken within him. He would also never have fallen hapless prey to Mother Nature and her fickle ways… he had just begun to heal from one death, he certainly wasn't ready to face another. He didn't move from his cot for what felt like months (although, in reality, it may have been more like weeks), apathetically accepting the futility of interacting with human kind, every face marked with the potential to rip another jagged scar across his heart.

But then, there was that word again – _acceptance_. It had been her greatest gift to him, and her greatest wish. How could he deny her that, all that she'd lived for? Ultimately, he had learned to accept her parting, and had learned to accept what he was. He had also learned that Claire had been wrong – love _did_ stay. It stayed in _him_. _And_ her, unless she'd forgotten the love she'd held for her husband and the babies they'd lost… somehow he didn't think she ever would.

He took deep breaths, lying back on the grass with his knees bent and being gently brushed by swaying blossoms. He listened to Sylar's small yet commanding voice, reminding him of these things that he already knew. He needed the repetition because he was going to have to say goodbye again today.

Sylar stopped mid-sentence and cocked his head to the side.

"I think someone's staring at us…"

He stood and held out his hand, helping Gabriel to his feet. The field disappeared.

~*~*~

Claire excused herself from the commons with a stack of sandwiches claiming she couldn't stay. She was stocking up for a weekend of homework – she was studying to become a nurse. She didn't suppose another lie would make any difference, not when she knew she was going to have to call Duncan the next day to come pick her up after she '_accidentally_' got sucked out of an airlock. Maybe in her next life she could actually _use_ the degree she already held… if she could remember anything it had taught her. She still possessed wonderful organizational and time management skills, those never stopped being useful, right? And she was fabulous at managing money. She was a shoe-in for colony life, where the economy was still somewhat fledgling. Well, _some_ colonies, the really far ones – the closer ones were more established and were considered affluent like richer suburbs to choked and starving cities. She smiled at the parallel, Earth having _suburbs_.

Her heart sank a little with disappointment when she passed through the doorway into her living area and she _wasn't_ smashed up against the wall or the ceiling or some combination thereof, scattering her sandwiches every which way and up. They were stacked so precariously she thought it was karmically unjust that they didn't end up on the floor. Nope, contrary to their history thus far, instead of being met with searing blue jolts and manic eyes fevered with sick malignance she was greeted with calm, quiet breathing. She could've heard a pin drop. She shook her head and deposited the sandwiches into the mini-fridge.

She stood studying him for a moment. He sat on the floor with his back against the sofa, his hands folded and resting in his lap. His breath rate could almost be described as meditative – he was in another world. After having listened to him talk the night before, she grew suddenly quite aware of what he was doing. He was talking with his '_other_'. She hadn't been sure she'd ever get to witness the behavior, and it was fascinating. Before she could stop herself from doing something so dumb, she'd already knelt before him and was waving her hand in front of his face. '_He's not blind, stupid_…' Sadly, their time together was limited and she had something to give him before she shipped him off to his destination – she had to get his attention, which meant breaking his spell.

"…Sylar?" she attempted, meekly. He didn't stir. It had been a long time since she'd used his other name – his _real_ name – and the last time he'd heard it from her it was flung at him like a dagger. This time it was decidedly more honeyed.

"Gabriel?"

His thick eyelashes parted to gift her his awareness. The air between them hung heavily laden with the significant passage of time. While it was true he'd been out of prison for a few weeks, his clean slate technically already having been underway, opening his eyes to be met by hers felt more than just a little like waking up to the first day of his life. As green as the stormy Atlantic, they stripped him down to his barest metal parts, learning him as he'd learned so many others before her, watching him tick. Every figment of desolation dissolved under that gaze – he may have to leave her, but she'd always be '_out there_', somewhere, _knowing_ him. She was precious, a beacon.

"…a light in the darkness…" he whispered, sending her head into a demurely quizzical tilt, causing an errant lock of oddly-colored hair to drift over one soft cheek. He couldn't take his eyes off of it.

'_Oh god. Oh my fucking god it's true. Holy shit, no… Please god no, it is. It's fucking true._'

He did. He _loved_ her.

"Hmm?" she asked.

Coughing down a sudden flare of discomfort, he replied, "…nothing." He reluctantly tore his eyes from her and gave them a good rubbing.

"I, uh… I have something for you," she interjected quickly, remembering the envelope she'd stashed in her purse. She rose to slide her lab coat into a small closet before ducking her fingers into the bag, drawing forth the object in question. "I have, in my hot little hand, a whole new _you_." The irony was not lost on either of them. They both left _that_ unspoken. With great flourish, she plopped back down on the floor and held the envelope at arms' length out before her. "This is bigger than Christmas, are you excited?" He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Umm… yeah… can't wait to run off to my new life as a stall mucker on some sheep-herding colony out in the farthest reaches of space…"

"Please, Duncan only does that to people who cause trouble."

Gabriel made a grand gesture of cocking his head to the side and glaring at her meaningfully.

"Don't flatter yourself," Claire responded to his expression. "Duncan's too young. He's never heard of Sylar, and I'm not going to tell him. So, what've we got here… you ready?"

"I was born ready."

"Yeah, you were born _something_, alright… lessee here…" She made quick work of tearing open the envelope to withdraw an I.D. card and some paperwork that included things like a birth certificate and other registry files.

"Your name is-"

"Jim! Can I be Jim? I wanna be Jim!"

"Tom. Tom…"

"Aww fuck, I _hate_ Tom…"

"Tom… damn, I hate it when Duncan does this to the new guys… I'm not sure I can pronounce this…"

"Lemme see." She placed the card in his waiting hand before moving on to the other papers.

"I think it's… wow. All consonants." It was spelled 'Krtek'. "You sure this is right?"

"I know his sense of humor. It's correct."

"Hmph."

"It's your own damn name, you know – you can pronounce it however you want."

"Great. Then it's pronounced fucking '_Smith_'."

Ahhh, _there_ he was, the whiny bitch she knew so well. The ice was beginning to melt.

"Oh wow…" she'd whispered as she'd read on. "You've been conscripted into Intelligence." She turned her face to him, eyes a little wider than perhaps she'd liked. "You're an _agent_." Which was funny, because that's exactly where she'd lied about sending his body. He was going to show up at an Intelligence office alright, but he was supposed to show up _dead_, not alive. This day just kept getting better. A hint of recognition flitted across his features.

"The man who got me out of the camp I was in," he said, "he told me I wasn't a '_mod_', said I was '_natural born_'. Said we were rare, and we were typically urged by the rebels to go into Intelligence to become double agents because we were capable of living '_normal lives_'. Claire, I don't know what any of this means…"

That's _exactly_ what Duncan was trying to do. But Claire had called him a mod – how did he know he wasn't? She supposed it wasn't hard to track that he was aboard the exploded shuttle craft – he'd probably talked to the same guy who got him out of the camp and put him on the damned thing. Duncan knew people everywhere.

"I've been _underground_, Claire, for a _long time_… what's going on?"

She would have to start from the beginning.

"Can I call you Gabe?"

"Wha-? Uh… yeah? I thought I was _Tom_?"

"I've always liked Gabe…"

"What's that got to do with any-"

"The bad guys won. Crazy evil scientist lady? Yeah. She figured out how your ability worked. After that people started disappearing. Except me, of course. Thanks to you, I was _dead_.

I went to work as an administrative assistant in some high rise in New York. Moved apartments but didn't have to leave the city, I mean, no one was gonna find me there. Millions of people everywhere, like trying to find a grain of sand. Anyway, the man I worked for, his boss was one of those lavish, important people that would almost seem fictitious if you didn't actually _see_ him in the office once or twice a year. His name was Mr. March.

So, my boss asked me to accompany Mr. March to this benefit gala thing because, for whatever convenient reason, _Mrs_. March wasn't going to be able to attend. I even got an allowance to get myself a dress and some shoes. I shouldn't have gone – should've known I was nothing more than a well-paid _hooker_ – but I'd never been to a '_gala_' before and he was picking me up in a limo and everything so… I said _yes_.

Late the next day I went upstairs to pick up my voucher from Mr. March's personal secretary to take myself shopping, but when I got there I found out she'd been out sick, which was probably why _I_ was going to the gala and not _her_. So, anyway, the vouchers were on his desk and I was basically gonna have to sign myself off on one – into his office I went. No big deal right? _Right_.

Well, there was a large envelope that had been placed right smack in the middle of his desk." She leaned forward conspiratorially, she was getting to the important bits. "It didn't have a return address, just a logo. A logo I'd seen before, in some of Craig's old things. It was the logo for the company he used to work for, which had, as we all know, turned out to be a cover for the nefarious Dr. Judy Rogers and all of her shadow people." She nodded until he nodded with her. "I had to open that envelope, Gabe. I mean, what if I was gonna end up going to some function that just _crawling_ with all of those black suited fuckers? I had to know, right? There was a lot more at stake there than just my _job_.

So, I opened it. It contained a letter that talked all about these advancements that had been made in learning to actually _manipulate_ the human genome, and it invited him to an exclusive demonstration – something that only weird rich people got. There were plane tickets in there and everything – all expenses paid, the whole thing was all set up. It was an offer that no one would be crazy enough to refuse. Gabe – the plane was bound for _Arizona_.

I kept quiet about the whole thing, but caught snippets of conversation between Mr. March and a colleague while we were at the gala – someone else who had gotten an envelope. This guy was a shareholder, and owned large portions of a huge pharmaceutical conglomerate. He had inside information, said that this lab in Yuma had found a way to re-wire the human genome to grant someone special abilities. But not random, not like what _Mohinder_ had done. They could make it so someone could _custom make_ themselves – could be given certain abilities, whatever they wanted. If it was your lifelong dream to be able to fly, you could fly. You want x-ray vision? Sure, you got it. It was going to come in the form of exorbitantly expensive injections. One miracle shot and whammo! You could be the super genius you always wanted to be, or whatever.

Well, Mr. March ended up going and literally that was the last time I ever saw him. I don't know why, and I'm not going to even speculate. For all I know, he became a mole-man and spent the rest of his life underground. Whatever.

So, anyway, rich people are kinda crazy, you know? Especially the _kids_ of rich people. It wasn't long before spoiled, neurotic teenagers were getting special abilities. You remember Ted? With hands like nuclear reactors? And that one guy who made that black hole in the middle of New York that one time?" How could he forget, he'd _saved_ her from that one. "Yeah, _one_ of those was bad _enough_ – bad enough that there was an entire secret company devoted to hunting him down. Can you imagine how much damage could happen if even as few as _ten_ super-powered little paparazzi-brats were running around, treating the world like their own private first-person shooter?

But it got _worse_. One of those little super-freaks figured out the formula – I mean it was really only a matter of time, right? He sold it to the highest bidder. It started showing up on the streets at prices that _far_ undercut what little miss Dr. Rogers had in mind. Suddenly ten super-powered psychopaths turned into hundreds which became thousands.

But it's even worse than _that_. Dr. Rogers wasn't seeing any of the profit from the expanding street sales, so she started circulating rumors that the original formula was eventually _wearing off_ and when it did… it _killed_. The only way to survive was to spend the rest of your life receiving regular injections of a _new_ formula ever few years or so, and you could only get it at her own sponsored clinics. The street sale stopped almost immediately. She was raking in the dough from _insurance companies_. She came up with this '_new formula_' around the time you got transferred away from the facility in Terre Haute."

"She broke in and stole a vial of my blood."

"Yes, and the rest I've found out from Duncan and his rebels. There was nothing _wrong_ with the original formula – it was the _new_ formula that was tainted, with something that acted like the _Shanti_ virus which was _deadly_ for regular people, but for those with abilities all it really did was nullify our powers."

He remembered its effects clearly. "That's what she took from me…"

"Mmhm. The people who had been given the new formula _did_ eventually see their abilities wear off, and when they did they literally became regular, baseline people infected with a deadly virus. The formula acted like a vaccination at that point – the only way to survive was to receive another injection to get that ability _back_, nullifying the effects of virus temporarily. So then, what Dr. Rogers had _created_ was a terrible, vicious cycle that was going to make her a ton of money.

Until the FDA banned the further sale of the formula to anyone not previously infected and currently receiving injections. People called them '_modulars_', or someone who had _modified_ themselves in some way. Nowadays you just hear 'em called '_mods_'. Anyway, just when Dr. Rogers was starting to think she might need a new plan… mods started having _babies_, who were _also_ born with abilities and who _also_ carried a virus that needed to be fixed with regular injections.

So. Now what you have is a growing population of sick, _angry_ people with super powers, coupled with an ever growing need for greater technology. Pardon the example, but what would you think would happen to a world with a million Sylars running around on it?"

He favored her with a silent, sober gaze but didn't appear to be insulted. She continued.

"Anyway, to make a three-hundred-year-long story short, our planet is a war zone. Baseline humans have been leaving in droves for the colonies, at least the ones who can _afford_ it, and the Earth below is a '_safe haven_' of mod camps which are supposed to be run by these humanitarian organizations who take care of the poor, unfortunate blighted mods. They can't help what they are, right? So they house them and give them injections on social security, providing them what _they_ consider to be a good quality of life. But let's face it – they're _prison_ camps. Those people have no freedom and no livelihood. And discontent breeds rebellion.

Some people think the rebellion started with the _mob_ – that's where I used to get all my new identities, did you know that? You were in prison – how many people did _you_ see were in there for moving people across state lines?"

"I was in the loony bin downstairs, I didn't really -"

"Lots of mods put out favors for the mob to get out of the camps, there's big business in mod trafficking, and the procurement of injections kept them very, very loyal. Once enough of them got out, they started organizing. Nowadays, they infiltrate supply ships to procure aid for mod camps. They sabotage force domes over camps, trying to weaken them, making it easier to escape. Sometimes they sabotage bio-domes on the colonies as an act of _vengeance_ – not all rebels condone this action, but it happens nonetheless. I think some rebels dream of having a colony of their own, but that's not a far stretch, right? Some free little piece of the wild west out on the next frontier? Where the laws of baseline humans doesn't apply?

Anyway, people like us are still being born. People who are naturally born with abilities. It's true, we're rare, we're typically born outside of mod camps, and we can live without injections. I think you can guess the rest.

And that is where you _are_."

"Tom Krrr-tehk, baseline human Intelligence agent -"

"Intelligence agencies work hand in hand with the Black Guard, Gabe. That's the sticky part."

"Shadow people."

"Mmhm. They're all modified, hive-minded clones. They don't get injections, they get _replaced_. They're incredibly tough to beat, but hopefully you won't _have_ to because none of them will _remember_ you."

"Claire," he began, an old, devilish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, jabbing a nostalgic hook into her heart, "I _promise_ I'm tougher to beat than _they_ are. I'm happy to _replace_ a few while I'm at it. Where am I headed?"

"Out on the _Zephyr_, to the Pisces sector. You're, uh…" she passed a hand through her hair and stood, opening the fridge. He got the impression that she was trying to hide her face from him. "You're scheduled to leave in an hour."

She felt his breath tickle the back of her neck. Silently he'd come to stand behind her.

"Hungry?" she stammered nervously. "Brought sandwiches, and a few for the road. It's a long flight." She turned and pressed herself uneasily against the counter, startled by his sudden proximity, or more accurately the way it made her feel… disarmed and vulnerable. She had to admit, though, it was almost a relief to discover he could still be a tad creepy. "Got tuna, roast beef, peanut butter and banana -"

"Ooo, seriously?" Something was lost as he transformed, becoming boyishly delighted. "I _love_ peanut butter banana!" And after three hundred years, she'd still managed to learn something new about him. He was animatedly leaning to peer over her shoulder. She stepped away, providing him access to peruse the stash to his content, taking a seat on the sofa.

"That gives us an hour to think up a plan."

"Plamm?" he mushed around sticky peanut butter, already diving in.

"Yeah… to get you on that ship without getting caught. Plus… there's _one last thing_."

"Ob courth 'ere ith."

"There's a shadow man here on the station. He is very specifically looking for _you_."

Naturally. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

**A/N #2: Awwwww he loves her! Isn't that sweet?!?! But what happens next?!?!?! Oddly enough, this isn't where I wanted to end the chapter but it was running a bit long so the next chapter might be a bit short - that also means it should be updated a bit quicker, it's bittersweet.**


	7. 7 Unspoken

**A/N: Hmm... methinks there be a bit of flirting in this chapter... well well well! I'll let YOU be the judge!!!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**7) Unspoken**

"We have to change your appearance. Ever thought of shaving your head?"

"Uhhh… not particularly, no…"

"Ever thought of what life might be like as a blonde?"

"Umm, _no_."

"_Red_? I've got lots of colors -"

"Claire. Please don't touch my head. _Ever_."

"Well, _Gabriel_, it's not like I have one of those silly lookin' glasses and big-nose-moustache things lying around…"

"Don't be stupid."

"_You're_ stupid. We have to do something!"

"Here – I got something, here we go: if anyone tries to _stop_ me, _I'll_ stop _them_."

She glared at him menacingly.

"_What_. Claire, we don't have to -"

"No, no, you're right. That's a _great_ plan -"

"Forget it -"

"No, I mean, to _hell_ with _my_ life here, being the last person to lay a hand on your _dead body_ and everything… You know, the _dead body_ that's _not_ supposed to be up walking around '_stopping_' people???" Her fingers made quotation marks in the air.

He sighed in resignation and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm _not_ going to be a blonde."

"_Fine_."

Her fet piped a series of small chimes – she'd received a message. She crossed the room in three strides to dive into her purse, happy for the interruption. Retrieving the device, she discovered it was from Duncan.

'_Don't forget to check your mail, sweetheart!_' Such a nice fake uncle.

"Hmm… you may have nothing to worry about. I might have an answer. _Stay here_."

Like he hadn't been staying _right there_ for the past two days? He tossed his hands in exasperation before settling in to imagine what he'd look like without hair. Would he have a nice, smooth head, or weird hidden bumps and crevices?

Claire dropped her fet back into her bag which she then looped over her arm before slipping out the door. She was halfway down the corridor leading to the elevator, with the moon-like glow of the earth reflecting sunlight over her right shoulder, when its doors opened to reveal a chilling black figure. Her breath arrested in her throat and her heart stood still as he stepped, almost in slow-motion, from the lift. With lightning reflexes, she whipped her head away from him, tossing her hair, making a grand show of digging her fet from her purse.

"Hello?" she breathed her lie into the receiver, addressing a fictitious listener on the other end. She continued her false, one-sided conversation until the Shadow Man had passed her by, buffeting her body with his icy aura. After some distance had been put between them, she quietly followed.

There were many decks comprising the habitation wing, with groups of elevators connecting them, but since she was new to the station she'd been assigned to the main deck. While it was closer to the main lift that transported tenants to the rest of the wings, the units there were smaller and the population density was greater – her evenings were a bit more noisy than what the tenured employees enjoyed in their more spacious, upper-deck apartments. The gist, however, was that if the Shadow Man was looking for one singular man in the entire habitation wing, he was going to be looking for… a while. Which was why Claire was, while tucked back in an alcove designed to contain a light fixture for the hallway, horrified to watch as the strange individual walked straight up to _her_ front door. No guessing, no pacing the long gallery of doorways like a hungry, impatient panther. He knew _exactly_ where he was headed. She bit her lip, terrified he could still hear the air passing through her nostrils, waiting while he appeared to be memorizing every last detail of the portal separating her living quarters from the outside world – separating Gabriel from _him_. Maybe he was stoically employing some sort of ability that would allow him to see inside…

_What was she going to do_?!?

Before she could panic, he suddenly ceased his unnerving stillness to briskly turn and leave, heading back the way he'd come. She smashed herself into the corner of the alcove, desperate to become one with the wallpaper, making outrageous bargains with a god she wasn't sure she believed in, praying he wouldn't see her. Undeservedly blessed, she remained hidden as he paced to the elevator and stepped inside without looking back. She banished fear to instinct and made a mental note of the deck on which the elevator stopped. She now knew where _not_ to go. She practically ran to her domicile and squeezed herself inside before the door had the chance to fully open.

"We gotta go – we gotta go _NOW_!"

Confused, Gabriel got to his feet but Claire was hoping the tone of her voice would've conveyed a bit more urgency, making him a little less sluggish. She growled in frustration as she took a large step toward him and gripped his wrist.

"Come _on_!"

"Where're we going?"

"This place is compromised, I need to get you to a better hiding place, then I've gotta go check my mail."

"Your… _mail_?" he muttered in disbelief as she yanked him forward and out the door. He didn't really expect an answer, which was good because he didn't get one. What he received, instead, was a elbow in the stomach as she forced him bodily into the alcove she'd used earlier.

"Stay here."

Glancing around, she trotted ahead and pressed the button by the lift. Once the elevator that had arrived was determined to be empty, she beckoned for him to hasten down the hallway and join her inside. He complied a bit more easily this time.

"I'm going to take you to the environmental recycling and filtration unit. It's not exactly a fun place to hang out, but it's guaranteed to be deserted. From there we can crawl in the ducts and follow the pipework to where they hook up to the hangar decks. They'll be servicing the shuttles and larger ships, so that'll make it easier to… are you listening?" His expression was distracted and pained. He turned blank eyes to her and nodded without conviction. She didn't have time to speculate over what might be tumbling around inside his head unspoken, she was too busy trying to anticipate which next move was the correct one. "… well, you get the point. The only bright side is that we don't have long."

Getting from the medical wing to the corridor that took them to environmental was tense – the hospital was packed with thick knots of people. Fortunately, with the recent influx in capacity, Claire was able to use the chaos to her advantage. Gabriel found himself back on another stretcher, breathing against a sheet, as she pushed the two of them through unnoticed. He was happy to abandon the ruse once they were free – he wasn't exactly the kind of guy that enjoyed playing dead.

They eventually reached a stairwell that took them down. The heat and the thickness of the air started to become oppressive enough that the walls began to feel like they were closing in. Before claustrophobia had the chance to claim them, Claire led them through a portal that opened into a vast expanse of pipework and roiling vats. She tucked him in between some boxes that contained fuel for the boiler units, and took him by his shoulders.

"Stay here, I just need to -"

"Claire, I could've just shapeshifted into someone else and walked right on that ship…"

She was silent for a moment, looking up at him plaintively.

"I know, I know… I just…" She rubbed the sides of his arms. "I just didn't want to take any chances."

Her lie buzzed up his spine and rattled his teeth. It pricked him like a papercut under the fingernail, irritating enough to light a flame under his famous temper. _Years_ she'd been nothing but honest with him for the sheer _brutality_ of it, and now – _now_ – she chooses to break the habit? If there was something she wasn't telling him, he was _going_ to find out what it was. Shocks lit her fingertips, causing her to rip her hands from him, taking a stunned step back.

"Wha-"

"That's _not_ what you wanted to say, Claire. Speak your mind."

She balled her hands into fists and narrowed her eyelids in annoyance – her sudden defensiveness spoke volumes of the words left unsaid trying to poke through the surface. She squinted and shook her head, then huffed.

"We don't have time for this." She turned to leave but didn't make it half a step before she found herself immobilized. Unfortunately, he _did_ catch the smile she tried to hide by quickly closing her eyes. She tried so hard to convince herself that his insidious invisible grip – the one he'd used to subdue her, terrorize her, _violate_ her – didn't feel like a cherished embrace from an old friend. She didn't succeed. He turned her to face him and released her slowly. He leaned back against the boxes, arms folded over his chest, one ankle crossing the other, making a grand show of waiting for her to open her mouth. She breathed a sigh of resignation.

"You're not the only one who's been alone a _long time_," she whispered, inspecting her toes. "Seeing you… took me back to a time when… I _wasn't_." She ran her tongue over her top lip before she met his eyes. "I guess I just wanted to be able to say goodbye." Her truth rang clear as a bell.

He felt like a shithead. He nodded his understanding, complacent to do whatever she asked of him, unwilling to cause her more grief, secretly grateful for the opportunity to see her one last time. She dug into her purse and retrieved his I.D. and paperwork – he accepted her offering.

"Hold onto these. You have a neural tap -"

"Yeah, I got it in prison -"

"Yes you did – when I get back we're gonna update it so your info matches your I.D. I'm hoping the package I've got in the mail has clothes – Intelligence agents don't exactly run around a lot sportin' hospital scrubs," she said, gesturing at his entirety. She gave him a final parting look before adding, "I'll be back soon," and then she was gone.

~*~*~

The Shadow Man left the morgue and ascended one deck, in search of this '_Jesse_'. He found the man hovering over a married couple, lying prone in separate beds that had been pushed together in an obvious attempt to conserve on space (a cloth divider had been draped across the room, partitioning it to allow for privacy while still managing to accommodate two more people on the other side). They both were clearly very sick: their skin had taken an eerie greenish hue and was dotted with an occasional blistering boil, he guessed as a result of some sort of exposure to radiation or something harmful in the decimated colony's atmosphere. Their breaths came in short rasps and they were _afraid_, as evidenced by how tightly they clasped each other's hands. Jesse Northrup, as his nametag read, sensed the additional presence in the room without looking up from the readouts he was inspecting while deftly passing his examination wand over the wife.

"Can I help you?"

In the interest of being thorough, the Shadow Man pulled a scanner from his belt, using it to attempt to locate the frequency Tami had supplied him.

"There was a shuttle shot down, Earth-side. The body of one rebel, I've been told, was to have been brought here for further inspection – an odd tattoo on his wrist was generating some interest."

Jesse turned and cocked an eyebrow in curiosity. First of all, the Black Guard never traveled alone and were _certainly_ never this… chatty, using inflections outside the normal monotone. Second of all, he hadn't seen _anyone_ fitting that description. Before he could voice his confusion, the Shadow Man continued.

"Tami said Rose had brought him."

Jesse turned away from his patients in his best curmudgeonly fashion. He was a man of advanced years – thin grey hair wisped over brown spots covering his scalp, thick lenses sat at the tip of his long, crooked nose, and his stooped posture belied a youth that had seen far too many fast cars and cigarettes. He'd grown too old for patience or manners. He ripped his glasses off, flicking his oversized ears in the process.

"Look around you, you faceless pea-brain! You think, at a time like _this_, that this is the kind of place I want those girls bringing _dead bodies_?!? Like I don't have enough on my plate _already_??? Got doctors of all sorts upstairs tryin' to help these people and guys like me – the ones who do the diagnosin', all the _real_ work – need to be coming up with some sort of answer! This is a tragedy happenin' here, _kiddo_ – you think I got time for some stupid tattoo?!?" The Shadow Man gracefully replaced his scanner into its holder on his belt and folded his hands behind his back, allowing the man the opportunity to vent his frustrations. "No – I ain't see no body, I ain't seen no flippin' _tattoo_, and I ain't seen either one of them goddamn girls in days. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more important things to attend to!" He returned to his duties as if nothing had happened, and gave no further indication that he was aware of his presence any longer. Silently, having already received his answer from his scanner, the Shadow Man slipped from the hospital in search of the habitation wing.

Which he found easily. People in space were so helpful. Except for Jesse Northrup. Careful not to walk into a woman talking on her fet in the corridor, he busied himself with his scanner once more as he stepped off the elevator. He wasn't entirely surprised that he'd picked up a reading. His pulse quickened as he followed the steadily emitting frequency to the location of its source - apartment 102, residence of Rose Bennett. A thought flitted briefly across his consciousness - the last girl named "Bennett" that had known his quarry had been killed violently, having been ripped to shreds before he set her on fire. He wondered what must've happened to invoke such wrath, but didn't ponder long as it was illogical to speculate on something that'd happened so long ago. He was only one of two people in the known universe who'd remember it anyway.

He neatly packed away his device as he stood before the door, rigid with anticipation. Only the flat panel of acrylic polymer blend presented any obstacle – the chase was over. He mentally filed through all of his abilities before settling on telekinesis. With surgical precision, he began to turn the pins of the lock on the door.

And was met by a force he supposed he should've expected, after all, his fighting prey also possessed centuries of experience using the same gift. Sylar's hold on the last two pins was too great – he would not allow them to budge. Unwilling to make a scene, the Shadow Man recognized it was time for another tactic: if he was unable to break in, he would have to wait them out. Certain that Sylar and his keeper, this _Rose Bennett_ woman, would eventually require sustenance, he retreated to the lift to make his way to the commons. As he stepped out and rounded a corner into the great hall, loudly busy with milling crowds, air thick with the powerful aromas of baking breads and cooking meals, he marveled, again, over the object of his quest. What kind of girl would be foolish enough to befriend the killer? Or, better yet, what had the man done to earn the risk of her home and livelihood?

Despite the best efforts of the surrounding patrons to casually avert their eyes attempting politely not to stare, he could feel their eyes on his back tingling up his spine and across his shoulders as he took a seat near the viewport looking off into space, starkly framing the moon in the distance against a black background. He could have disabled his hooding device, that which provided the illusion of black facelessness, to enjoy a cup of coffee during his wait, but he knew he'd immediately be recognized as not truly belonging to the Black Guard and he preferred not to draw more unwanted attention to himself. An undisturbed sentinel, he settled in to watch the door.

It was then, just as his mind began to wander, that he began hearing snippets of conversation. A group of people three tables away had secured passage aboard the _Zephyr_, heading to a new life on a colony in the Pisces sector. Some of the survivors from the Sagittarius accident were also being transplanted there, after having vehemently protested a return to Earth. He watched as a pack of dock laborers filed into the areas where he knew food staples to be kept in cold storage. If they were ready to start loading perishables aboard the ship, it wouldn't be long until it was in transit. He had a sneaking suspicion. Double checking his utility belt, making sure all of his implements were in place, he rose and made his way to the hangar deck.

_That_ would be the right place to wait.

~*~*~

Tami stepped out of the shower just in time to hear her fet going crazy. She slapped a towel around herself and made a run for it, catching her caller in the nick of time.

"This's Tami…" she breathed.

"Girl, are you out to get me???" It was Jesse.

"Excuse m-"

"What're you tryin' to do, sending the Black Guard up to see me in the middle of a crisis? Askin' stupid questions about some _fictitious body_ of all things…"

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"Yer little black-suited friend, that's who! Talkin' awful loud about looking for a body in front my _dying_ patients!"

"Jesse calm down-"

"Don't tell _me_ to -"

"Rose took our guy up to see you, remember? The one that had a hundred year old RFID tag? She said you guys had packed him on ice to send him on the _Zephyr_ to Intelligence in Pisces…"

"Now, see, that's where I get _confused_ because I haven't seen any body, and I sure as hell haven't talked to Rosie…"

Why would she lie? After calming Jesse down and hanging up the call she thought back to the conversation she'd had with Rose about the peculiar body. Did the mod really have some weird sort of cockroach power? Would… would he come back to life??? After all, he'd possibly _already_ lived that long, right? Could Rose be hiding him? She was still so new, what did anyone really _know_ about her – did she sympathize with mods?

Was she a _rebel_?

~*~*~

Her first thought when she returned and witnessed what he'd been up to in her absence was '_why are men so stupid_?' There before her sat Gabriel, completely surrounded by highly flammable crates of fuel, busying himself by making a sparking blue ball of lightning that hovered precariously between his fingertips.

"Nope, you haven't changed a bit, I should've suspected as much. You're trying to kill us _all_."

"Hmm...?"

She pointed to his surroundings. "You're playing wick to the roman candle there, chief. Gonna blow a hole out the side of the station, make us a bit more noticeable… suck a few people out into space… _you_ know… no big deal."

He sneered at her like an adolescent. "_I got it under control_…" Nonetheless, he extinguished his charge without mentioning the times the sparks sometimes accidentally escaped him when he was startled or particularly emotive.

"Hold still." She brandished an item from the bundle she carried – it looked a little like a gun used at the supermarket used to read bar codes. It was a neural tap reader. "This'll disorient you a little for a second, but it won't hurt. Give me your I.D." She scanned the card before pointing the device at the back of his head, allowing it to do its job. The room tilted a bit and he lolled forward while his brain received and processed the new information. It was a sensation that was similar to the procurement of a new power, except in this instance what he'd received was a new identity – the ability to recognize the new name and the minor details that came with it. It was a few moments of raw blissful ecstasy thanks, in no small part, to his ability.

"… can I keep that thing?"

"Here," she said, ignoring him and dropping the rest of her pile to land softly in his lap. She had, in fact, acquired new clothing. "Put this stuff on. The pants are probably way too big, as well as the shoes – Duncan usually guesses on the larger side of things-"

"Probably safer -"

"- yeah, but I think there's a belt there, at least."

She turned her back to him, allowing him his privacy while she opened a panel in the wall revealing access to the ducts that would provide ships like the _Zephyr_ an atmosphere control unit pumped full of freshly filtered air. She climbed a few rungs up a ladder, scouting ahead, hoping that any labor work required for the ship's climate would already have been completed by now, leaving the ducts unoccupied. She continued until she reached a crossroads, allowing her to climb no further, but instead would require her to choose: left or right. She twisted her head back and forth – the coast was clear. They were going to go right.

"Claire?" she heard him softly call to her from below.

"Come on up, this way."

Slithering through the ducts was not at all unlike being a snake underground. The cramped space forced her to actively clamp down on her panic reflex, but the air was cooler than down below with a slightly earthy scent and a light current that brushed her hair to tickle her shoulders. After a few meters of letting her mind wander, she finally came to the realization that she totally had her butt in Gabriel's face. She stopped and dropped her hips to turn and squint at him suspiciously. He came to an abrupt halt, nearly bumping into her.

"…what?"

"You're being awfully quiet back there. I don't like it."

"Are you seri-"

"We established a long time ago that I _can_ be a pain in your ass even if I'm not an immediate threat to you, right?"

"Uhhh… sure?" He gestured for her to move on. She stayed put.

She noticed, for the first time, the clothing Duncan had sent. It was a suit – a nice one. A _James Bond_ nice one. He looked… _handsome_ – broad shoulders squared by clean, crisp lines while the collar hugged and accentuated the smooth musculature of his throat. His short haircut was appropriate, but he could've used a shave.

"I'm just sayin'… no funny business back there…"

He did his best to look innocent, which was just laughable. A breathy, lecherous chuckle escaped him and he made no attempt to stop it. Some things were just too good to repress. She huffed a sigh before crawling forward and pressing on.

The sad part was, until she'd said something, his mind was completely focused on making plans: what he was going to do once he got on the ship, and from there once he'd gotten to his destination in the Pisces sector. While he really had no interest in '_choosing a side_' and becoming a spy or whatever, he didn't mind the idea of a steady paycheck – something that would get him on his own two feet for a while until he could figure out what he was going to do next. But no. _Now_ all he could think about was the feminine curve of her hip as it swayed hypnotically in front of him, lulling him into some sort of hormone-driven trance. Fortunately, their forward trajectory was brought to an end once they'd reached another ladder, requiring they start climbing once again. He decided to distract himself further with conversation.

"So… you're a coroner? How did that happen?"

"_That_ is a three hundred year long story."

"Wanna know what _I_ think?"

"Nope, never have."

"I think," she knew he'd tell her anyway, "it's because you like working tucked away in a basement at some job that makes you just weird enough that no one would want to know you. You like the distance it gives you. And it gives you the opportunity to abuse poor dead bodies because you're jealous of them."

Her foot swung out an inch from his nose.

"Oops, sorry… _slipped_."

"Mmhm, _yeah_… So, am I close?"

She wasn't going to talk about it. She wasn't going to _admit_ to it. She let her silence speak for her. They continued climbing for what felt like forever until they finally reached a hatch that opened into a huge, dark, cavernous chamber. Across the great distance they could hear a constant, whispery hum from crowds of voices. Eyes having adjusted to the dimness, the outlines of monstrous shapes began to form, filling their vicinity. They'd reached the hangar deck. Tired and aching, Claire used her remaining energy to haul herself from the duct and collapse against some spare tubing that had been used to connect the airway to the requisite parts of a ship. She flung her arms above her head.

"I don't think these will ever work again, I swear we climbed for _miles_…"

Wiping sweat from his brow, Gabriel crawled out to sit next to her.

"I just still think it's amazing you knew exactly how to get here…"

"Planned this route when I first arrived, in case I ever needed a quick escape."

Gabriel nodded ahead of them at a large ship buzzing like an anthill with swarms of people.

"Is that the _Zephyr_?"

"Yup."

He silently indicated his acknowledgement before voicing it. "Well, there ya go." He grew awkwardly withdrawn for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh… I guess this is _it_ then," he muttered to his feet. Prepared to see her reaction, he bravely turned to face her, irrationally hoping to see something in her eyes that he knew he wouldn't – _shouldn't_.

And yet, she seemed oddly sad. She brought her arms back around and fiddled with her fingernails while she nodded slowly and somberly. "Yeah… I guess it is."

He groaned with fatigue as he stood and offered a hand to her. "Well, let's go."

She gazed up at him, heaving a heavy sigh before she gripped his wrist and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Unexpectedly affected by the brief contact, they both snatched their hands away, clumsily tucking them into pockets where the feeling could be quickly forgotten… or kept. Maintaining a respectable distance, they began crossing the hangar. The time had come to say goodbye.

~*~*~

The rebel sat in the dark of the hangar. With more than a mild curiosity, he watched as the man and the young woman crawled out of a sealed air duct – not exactly an orthodox way of getting onto a ship. He briefly wondered if he should know them – if they were mods or rebel spies – but tucked the thought away, they had nothing to do with his mission.

He had one remaining charge, having already used the first on the bio-dome covering the doomed colony in the Sagittarius sector. The second was destined for the _Zephyr_, whose tesseract drive operated, in large part, due to a monstrous particle collider that comprised a healthy section of its lower decks. The charge would be used to interrupt the collider's routines at a particular set of coordinates, disabling the ship where it could be found by patiently waiting rebel troops. The ship would then be commandeered, the collider would be restored, and the _Zephyr_ would be bound back for Sagittarius where the colony's goods and medical supplies could be recovered before any Earth Federals could get their hands them. The hostages – the three hundred men and women comprising her crew and her additional two hundred passengers – would be dealt with afterwards. Aside from sneaking access to the collider, this mission felt more like a pleasure cruise through space. He wished they could _all_ be like this.

As if he should've expected any _less_, however, there was one slight problem. The station currently docking the _Zephyr_, and everyone who would board her, was currently crawling with the Black Guard. There was one in particular who had beat him down to the hangar and was monitoring all traffic coming and going from the great ship, inspecting each person with unwavering scrutiny. He was certain he was looking for him. He would need to be dispatched _immediately_.

~*~*~

The hanger seemed to swirl around them, busy and loud and unfocused, as they plodded reluctantly onward toward the loading dock of the _Zephyr_, avoiding eye contact with each other to disguise an impending melancholy sense of separation. Well, until Gabriel brushed his hand against a food crate rolling past on a cart full of crates headed for the cargo hold. Visions exploded before his eyes, occluding his sight, causing him to stop and press a hand to his forehead.

"Hey… what's wrong?" he heard Claire call to him from what seemed like the other end of the station, so far away. While he couldn't see her, he could feel her lead him to a wall where he leaned unsteadily against the cool, stable surface.

What he did see was another large area – this one filled with tables and patrons, and a cafeteria. He watched as the crate was lifted to join others of its kind on a stack that then began to roll out of the commons. He sucked in a sharp breath when, suddenly, he saw the Shadow Man abruptly rise from the place he'd been seated and begin to follow. It had been so long since he'd seen one of them, and still they managed to raise his blood pressure. He slid his back down the wall, knees weak, and he threaded his fingers through his hair. It was a bleak feeling, to live this long and _still_ be hunted. He was walking into a trap, he just _knew_ it – the thought was dizzying and made him slightly nauseous. He continued to watch the Shadow Man follow the crate down several corridors and up a couple lifts until… His vision blinked clear and he could sense Claire in his periphery, kneeling at his left shoulder. His fingers itched for a fight, body thrummed with a need for violence – urges he knew he couldn't satisfy.

"_Get up_," she hissed, "people are watching us…"

He pushed against the wall as he got his feet back underneath him, eyes frantically darting from face to face around the hangar, scanning, searching…

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"He's here, Claire," he whispered. "The black suit."

"Are you _sure_?"

This time he looked directly into her, as if he could burn a note straight into her brain that told her exactly how sure he was. She looked away to start surveying the crowd as well, visibly shaken.

"Claire," he began, taking a step to place himself between her and her view of the ship and it's milling populace, making him her full focus. "It's not safe for you to go any farther. You've done enough for me already."

With his back turned to prying eyes, and Claire his only audience, he shifted his features to look like someone else – he chose his old jailor, Bob. She rubbed her elbows and peered down at her shuffling toes. She knew he now meant to go his separate way, intending for her to remain safe where she stood, and she was at a complete loss for what to say to him. She shook her head minutely before she granted him her lonely, sorrowful eyes.

"I'm, uh… well… I'm grateful to have had some company for a couple days, even if it was _yours_." It was easy to slip into old, familiar banter.

He gave her a wicked, lop-sided grin that was so characteristic of Sylar, even if the face it graced was anything but. It was fleeting, however, as he ducked his eyes in thought, steeling himself and taking a deep breath before saying what he wanted to tell her.

"Earlier today… I said something to you, but you didn't hear me and I didn't repeat it. I…" he stammered. "I said you were a _light in the darkness_." He met her face to face and moved closer, looming over her. He kept his voice quiet, private, between the two of them. "There were times when things were… hard. And sometimes, when I needed to… I thought of you. A _lot_. I… I think you're a part of what saved me, Claire, and you don't even know it. Someday, though, I _will_ repay you for it… and everything I've done to you." He backed away a couple steps, ready to leave her and begin his voyage. "I _promise_ I will. And we both know I'm pretty good at keeping my promises."

She smiled a sad but genuine smile before he turned and walked away. The space near her, the one that she hadn't even been aware he'd warmed, grew cold. She had her life back to herself again – all to herself, no one else. She wasn't going to cry, _she wasn't going to cry_. She'd kept herself numb for so long she'd ignored how _alone_ she'd become. She'd neglected her own basic human needs – rejected her humanity in its entirety. And then she'd seen his face – he'd shown up like a gift-wrapped punch in the nose who then opened up wide to reach out and give herself back to her. And yet she felt like he was taking a piece of her with him. _Damn_ him! _Damn_ him for slicing a knife right through her vulnerabilities one last time. She wasn't going to beg him to stay, and she wasn't going to follow him on that ship. But her heart was going to _burst_…

"Hey!" she called after him. He turned as she caught up, breathless and blushing. Her jaw worked soundlessly a bit before she spoke. "You… you taught me how to _feel_ again. How to be lonely and how to need. I know it sounds…" she sighed, waving her hand dismissively. "But I'd forgotten these things. Can you imagine what that's like? It's not living, it's _existing_." She reached to squeeze his shoulder, perhaps a little harder than she'd meant to. "You've reminded me how to _live_. I think you've repaid me more than you know." _And I will MISS you so much_… she left it unspoken like so many other things she suspected stood between them.

He nodded darkly, obviously not believing her, which was fine. She'd let him repay whatever he felt he needed to. He tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment, memorizing her face, before he said with heavy meaning, "I'll see you later," then turned and left. Claire remained behind, watching him go until he disappeared into the crowd.

~*~*~

The Shadow Man woke up stuffed in a shuttle craft somewhere, he suspected, still on the hangar deck of the space station. Somehow he'd been rendered unconscious and had been tied, wrists to ankles behind his back. It was agonizingly uncomfortable and more than a little irritating. He telekinetically removed his bonds and sat up, collecting some items that had left his person to become scattered on the floor, he suspected in the midst of his abduction.

Slowly, like a dissipating fog, some of his memory returned. He'd been struck by an unseen assailant – a tranquilizer dart. He supposed the shapeshifting Sylar could be responsible, either that or there were other rebels on the base, which wasn't too terribly unbelievable. There was still the question of who was responsible for the tragedy in the Sagittarius sector and whether or not his or her whereabouts included the space station currently housing the refugees. He was pretty sure his scanner would've picked up Sylar's proximity.

He reached to retrieve his fet, which had landed an arm's length away – it was beeping maniacally with alerts from the Black Guard's central command. There had been an incident and all deployed field agents were required to return for immediate reprogramming – there was a new objective in need of investigation.

It appeared that the _Zephyr_, who had departed several hours prior while he slept unaware on the cold, metal floor of his unfortunate location, had fallen prey to a rebel attack. The unthinkable had happened – a charge meant to disable the tesseract drive had actually created a weakness that compromised its structural integrity, allowing the energy created by colliding particles to flood the lower decks… where, in a fraction of a second, it met her fuel reserves for her impulse engines as well as her weaponry banks. The ship became a gigantic floating bomb. There had been no hope for her, and thankfully it had happened so quickly that no one had suffered.

_There had been no survivors. _

He was glad he was alone, as he unleashed an emotion he could never have shown publicly. He crashed his fist into the bulkhead, swearing loudly, snapping open bloody wounds on his hand that healed immediately. How could this have happened? How could he have come so close only to…. He'd lost _everything_ – he'd _failed_.

_No_. He _wouldn't_ give up. After double checking he still had his scanner, he rushed through an open hatch to the cockpit of the shuttle. He called in a clearance code that all of the Black Guard possessed, and was granted exit without question.

He supposed his goal didn't actually necessitate that Sylar remain _alive_… He was definitely going to show up at the scene of this accident.

**A/N #2: And, yes, I'm working on giving Sylar a brand NEW mental complex! Fear of flying MWAHAHAHAAAA!!! Seriously, I'd have a hangup about spacecraft by now too, with his track record, wouldn't you?**


	8. 8 Jason

**A/N: OMG!!! I swear it took FOREVER to get this chapter written! I was soooooo stuck!!! And then there was Thanksgiving and work's been killing me, ughhh!!! But alas, here it is!!! AT LAST!!!! This chapter is LOOOONG and is all about the Character Development of Claire. There's a theme going on here in Volume Two - absence and it's effects on the heart. I think, at the end of the chapter, you might start to see someone *else* enjoying a nice little float trip vacation in Egypt... I dunno... whatchoo think?  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**8) Jason**

It was cruel, being back in New York. She could hear the ghosts of long dead voices drift up from the alleyway below. She sat on the balcony of the Oglesby family home: a non-descript third story apartment belonging to what appeared to be a simple taxi driver, his wife, and teenage son. With her back against the bricks and her knees being warmed by a slowly setting sun igniting a lingering heat in the surrounding greenhouse gases, she watched a parade of faces march their haunting promenade beneath her, belonging to the ancient family who used to live there – _her_ family, her own memories made manifest across the dreamscape of her own disconsolate imagination.

She was laying low, having narrowly escaped capture at the space station once her co-worker, Tami, had raised suspicion against her for sympathizing with the modular rebellion. After having spent two days holed up in the apartment with nothing to watch but somber news reports covering the _Zephyr_ explosion, she'd had quite enough and had crossed Duncan's wishes by making a trip outside.

It had been a long time since she'd made her last trip to New York. Some traditions died hard – she got herself a slice of pizza and was surely going to visit a real bakery. She'd made the mistake of looking for the old high rise that housed the company she worked for when she was married to Craig. She couldn't even find the street, the locale had changed so drastically. Deciding it was for the best, she gave up and didn't even bother trying to find their old apartment. She was afraid of getting lost, anyway – not because she was afraid of being hurt, obviously, but because she was afraid of being _discovered_. The last thing she wanted to do was put Duncan even further at risk after everything he'd done for her.

She was plodding down the sidewalk like a zombie, heading back toward the train station with her fet in her hand trying to find directions to the closest muffin shop, when a weird sixth sense tingled between her ears, stopping her in her tracks. She straightened slowly and turned away from her busy handheld display, scanning the area for the source of her sudden distraction. It lay immediately to her right. She came around to face it, retracting a step and tilting her chip up for a better view. She stood stock still for several minutes, head tilted and lips slightly parted in wonderment, reading the sign over and over before she truly registered that what she was looking at was the storefront for a little jewelry shop – one that mostly specialized in the sale of watches and other small timepieces, all different kinds and all different units of time (because not every colony shared the same diurnal cycle). She knew, from perusing her father's file on him centuries ago, that Sylar had been a watchmaker, here in the city. She wondered where his shop would've been. She wondered where he'd lived. She wondered if she was standing anywhere close to where he'd stalked and terrorized any one of his countless victims…

He was _gone_. She felt like the breath had been snatched from her throat. It had only taken the two days she'd spent with him for her to be completely suckered into believing that he was different than every other walking meatbag in the known universe, and she'd been wrong. Well, he had always been _kinda_ different, but… okay, _very_ fucking different, but whatever. He ended up being just as expendable as anyone else – he was a joke that nature played on her. She was aware that if his body could be recovered, it very likely could be revived but it was the _recovery_ that was impossible. The explosion of that ship flung debris in a wide sphere at such a velocity that, in the frictionlessness of space, it would've kept moving on the same trajectory at the same speed forever and ever, or until it collided with something, which was astronomically unrealistic. Trying to find his body would've been like looking for a grain of sand on a faraway beach… on some other planet. And _that_ was wholly dependent on whether or not he'd been completely _vaporized_. He had been a gift from the fates – a representative of her life allowing her to live as '_Claire Bennett_' for just two days before he was ripped away. If she'd known her time with him was _final_, and was truly to be that short… she would've done more with it. What she would've changed she couldn't easily admit, her mind tossed with countless wild daydreams, but she would've said something more than just '_You've repaid me more than you know_'. She would've told him that she did see a change in him, and that she was proud of him.

She would've told him she'd miss him. He would've known someone would mourn his passing.

Duncan's son, Jason, had found her an undetermined amount of time later, still standing outside the shop. He'd driven her home (presumably under the direction of his father) and talked the whole way – something she'd found unusual in a seventeen year old boy, as she often found them nervous and awkwardly silent while Jason was strangely outgoing – but she hadn't heard a word he'd said. She'd sequestered herself to the balcony after that, not wanting to hear what Duncan would have to say and really not in the mood for human companionship. All she wanted was some time to herself, a really good cry, and a new I.D. so she could start moving on. _Alone_.

Through the glass door, and over the sound of a steaming tea kettle, she could hear Duncan being addressed by his wife, Zari.

"I think she knew him, nyonda," she heard her say.

"What gives you that impression?"

"She is _upset_. No one is that upset over a stranger. Do not be angry with her."

Upset was a severe understatement. Claire was _devastated_. A million years from now the universe will implode to the size of one little lifeless, _light_less floating lump of rock and she'll be left to stand on it with nothing and _no one_. Even a reformed serial killer was preferable to the eternal solitude. No one understood what it was like. She wore her tears like a brand – a mark showing the world exactly what she was. She didn't draw up her knees, she didn't conceal her face in her hands, she didn't hold her breath or try to keep them inside. She spilled them proudly, like a bleeding wound in battle.

Until the balcony door opened to test her mettle.

"Here," said a male voice that wasn't Duncan's. Through a watery haze she saw Jason over the rim of the steaming mug he was handing her. "Mom made this for you. It's tea – an ancient African blend. It'll make you feel better. I'm – _we're_ – sorry for your loss. Careful it's ho-"

Claire swallowed a large gulp. It was really good – a fruit blend of some kind, she was unable to identify.

"… hot." Jason huffed a small laugh. "I bet you eat pizza straight out of the oven too, without blowing on it."

"That's me, living life on the edge… Thank you though, this is nice." It dawned on her that Jason had referred to Zari as '_mom_'. Jason took after his father – pale, Norse features with crystal blue eyes and dusty blonde hair – while Zari was clearly of African descent. Jason picked up on her curiosity, and was glad – his story meant he could relate to her.

"My real mother died. So, I, uh… I kinda know how you feel."

"I'm sorry." He had no idea how she felt. _Be nice, Claire._

"Oh, it's alright, it happened a long time ago. I was really young. She was killed in a Federal raid on a known rebel compound. Zari's great, but dad's always worried about me. Says dealing with death is hard on people our age."

She couldn't stop herself.

"… _our_ age?"

"Yeah, like you and me."

Sometimes she forgot she was eternally locked in the body of a teenager.

"So… your dad hasn't told you anything about me has he?"

"Just that you're a natural born, and that your boyfriend died on the _Zephyr_."

_Why_ did everyone insist on calling him that? Ughh… Acutely aware her face was still wet, she was eager to change the subject.

"What's your ability, Jason?"

"Same as my dad, I'm a telepath. I've been rakin' in killer cash at poker tables. Pisses dad off, though." He absentmindedly fiddled with a leaf that had blown in on the wind. "Says he's scared I'm gonna piss off the mob… but mods need the money, right?"

"Don't piss off the mob, Jason." He just laughed and focused his attention on the leaf.

"So, what's _your_ power?"

"What, you can't just _read my mind_?" she dug through a weak smile.

"Not without permission." But it was okay to jack with the mob…

She leaned her head back against the cool, old brick and lidded her eyes against the waning glare of the setting sun, idly tracing her fingertip up and down the handle of the mug.

"Cellular regeneration," she admitted. "I can heal from any wound and I've never been sick. Not a single day in my whole life." _Her. Whole. Life._ After a pause, she decided to drop the other shoe. She turned to face him, driving her stare right into him to import the significance of what she was about to tell him. "Do you understand what I'm saying? I don't even _age_." She chewed her lip a moment. "I'm three hundred and twenty-five years old, Jason."

His first instinct was to smile incredulously, cocking a skeptical eyebrow. She huffed and turned away from him.

"You have my permission," she scoffed, waving a hand. "Tell me I'm lying."

He tried. He _couldn't_.

"…holy shit… you've had a _few_ boyfriends then." He was startled by his own boldness, feeling like he'd just called her a slut. "Uhhh, I mean… that's not what I meant, I -"

"I know what you meant. Typically, though, I don't do a lot of dating."

"But, what about -"

"_Not_ my boyfriend." _Seriously_. "Just… someone I was close to. Our relationship was complicated. Look, I really appreciate the tea, it's very good, but I wonder if I could have just a few minutes alone? I've got a lot on my mind."

"Uh, yeah, sure," he said, rising on well muscled legs. When he wasn't cheating the mob out of money he also ran track for his high school. He brushed his hair out of his face – a nervous tick she'd seen him display several times. "Sorry, I just sensed this loneliness coming from you and thought you might want the company… telepaths don't always get it right." He smiled a lop-sided smile that reminded her a little of Peter.

"No, no, you're sweet, thank you. I just…"

"It's alright. I'll catch you later. And if you want to go into town, just let me _know_ next time, 'kay? I, uh… I can take you, you know… if you _want_."

"That'd be great, thanks."

He nodded hard enough that the errant strand of hair he'd worked to displace disobeyed him. He opened the door and left her to her thoughts.

Two days and a couple of dirty jobs later, Duncan granted Claire her wish – she was to become Melissa Gant who would be starting her first day as a file clerk for a doctor's office on a very affluent colony in the Leo sector. She was moving to the colonies, and leaving every haunting memory of Earth behind.

~*~*~

*** _three years later_ ***

Painfully aware that her ability did not grant her preternatural grace, having learned the hard way many times (regardless of her past as a talented tumbling cheerleader), she placed her scalding hot cup of tea as far from her own reach as possible in an attempt to protect the envelopes she was opening. It was the first thing in the morning, _Monday_, and she'd just sat down from her trip to the mailbox. Because, when it came to medical records, some things still needed to be in hard copy, she still had unopened letters to look forward to every day. She didn't know why she enjoyed them so much – perhaps it was just nice to see something _not_ change through all of her many years. While real, physical paper had predominantly disappeared from most industries, she began to feel like her records were almost a link to the past… stirring echoes in her heart like a lost old flame. Therefore, they were precious to her and she was happy to treat them as such, regardless of whether or not they were a big part of her job. That was just an additional bonus.

She sorted and categorized all of the different papers: explanations of benefits where required, explanations of services rendered, authorization forms for services to be rendered, consent forms, medical history forms, receipts, new patient paperwork, and so on. For fun, she took the corner of a form authorizing the release of medical records and sliced it across the pad of her left thumb, watching the small wound heal before the blood could well up. She just wanted to be able to say she'd had a papercut. She was in the process of reaching for a band-aid that she could wear to further validate her claim when she noticed something extra sticking out of the envelope that had originally contained the form. It was a piece of paper, thinner than usual and lined – the kind she hadn't seen in _forever_ – and it was folded like a note. Curious to see what extra words the patient had to offer about the release of their personal information, she tugged it free and opened it up.

And immediately thrust it under her desk and out of sight. It was handwritten from Duncan, which also meant the accompanying form was false. It told her that Jason was nearby and was in trouble. There was the possibility he was under suspicion and needed safe transport to a contact who would ferry him to a safe-house in the country near the northern edge of the bio-dome – one that would be visited by rebel shuttlecraft chartered with the task of bringing him safely home. Duncan apologized for contacting her, stating he realized she never signed up to become a rebel agent, but he could really use her help. Fuck, talk about _guilt trip_. He ended his note with a set of coded coordinates and a kind thank you, which Claire found presumptuous, but she couldn't refuse the man. He was telepathic, after all – perhaps he could tell from an incredible distance that she wouldn't be able to deny him his request. She committed the numbers to memory before sliding the paper through her shredder. In an attempt to mask her guilty face, she reached for her tea and pulled a long, slow slurp.

Later that evening, after running her usual errands before using public transportation to get home like always, and against her better judgment, she wrapped her body inside the plush concealment of a large, grey hoodie sweater and left her home on foot under the cover of darkness. She walked a long, meandering path until she reached a transit station she rarely visited. An adjacent building housed a company that rented all kinds of motorized vehicles, from scooters to trucks. She used the credit card Duncan had provided her when she'd started this life, making a mental note to shred it the next day at the office before calling it in stolen – perhaps she could convince anyone scanning her charges that the rental had been made by the perpetrator who'd '_stolen_' the card. She was able to procure a small but quick two-seat sedan under the premise that she'd needed to pick up some packages that were simply too large to transport using the trains. She left the business and followed an even longer path, stopping first to treat herself to some dinner before winding her way through the city in the general direction her memorized coordinates specified.

She was dismayed as she grew nearer to her destination to discover that the surroundings had become somewhat… dismal. The section of the city seemed to be devoted to warehousing and storage – most likely food stores and other goods awaiting transport. It wasn't the kind of place one would expect to see a lot of people… since most likely the inhabitants were kidnapping victims awaiting ransom or torture and were expertly hidden from view. She was going to have to _search_ for Jason, and she was unarmed. She was morosely unsurprised. Glancing at her fet one last time before flipping it closed and tucking it snuggly into the rear pocket of her jeans, she determined Jason's location to be inside a large concrete structure designed for the housing of crates filled with textiles, nearly infinite in number.

She found a loading dock whose garage-style door was left slightly ajar – just enough for her to sneak through, but not if she were ten pounds heavier. Once inside, she brushed herself off and allowed her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim conditions, illuminated only by the narrow shaft of streetlight beaming softly under the door. She rose to her feet and was immediately startled, bumping her shoulder into a stack of crates and nearly causing a severely unfortunate catastrophe, when she heard a voice. One hand over her mouth, stifling her breath, and the other over her throttling heart, she came to the realization that the voice she'd heard came from within her own mind – she was the only person to hear it. It was Jason.

'_Don't walk straight ahead. And definitely don't speak.'_

He wasn't alone. She wanted to ask him what the hell he was doing there, who their '_company_' was, and how the hell she was supposed to get him out of there, but kept her lips firmly pressed together.

'_I've been gathering samples of cloth_,' he answered her unspoken question. '_The fibers these fabrics are made from aren't synthetic – they're naturally grown from a native plant that dad and some others suspect might have… special properties when mixed with certain other compounds. They're not positive, though._ _This isn't the first time I've been after this stuff… so… you can guess the rest._' She knew too well how deadly habits could become. She began to feel like an idiot standing inside the doorway, doing nothing.

'_There's a gap between the crates behind you. Trust me, it's there. Follow it until you can turn right – this will take you to the wall. I know it's dark, and a long way, but you can feel your way along the wall until you get near me – I'm holed up inside a box over here in the far corner and some Feds have set up camp right next to me. You'll see them before they see you. I think I can keep them from hearing you, but it's hard. I'm not powerful enough to keep them from seeing me. Thanks for coming, I owe you big time.'_

Yes, yes he did.

The warehouse was a massive, yawning chasm and it took her countless tensely agonizing minutes, placing one foot before the other, hands pressed to the clammy concrete in the pitch black while her breath rattled in rasps between her ears, before she began to notice the nearly imaginary glow of an electric lantern flickering ahead. The wan light marked the silhouette of a nearby stack of crates. She crept on silent feet until she came up behind them, crouching low to steady herself and listen.

'_I think there's three of them_,' Jason told her as she came to the same conclusion. No big deal. Claire had an idea, and she hoped Jason would be quick enough to jump out and run in time. She stepped from her hiding place to stand in the lantern light, interrupting conversation and recklessly presenting herself with absolutely zero inhibition.

"Howdy!" she waved, cheerfully. "What's goin' on?"

All three men were on their feet instantly, toppling the lantern on its side and nudging precariously stacked crates. They were pretty good – she almost didn't even see them draw their firearms.

"Who're you!" one of them demanded.

"I'm here to whoop yer ass," Claire answered plainly. "Unless you'd shoot a sweet little girl like me…"

"She's a _mod_," she heard a whisper.

She took a challenging step forward and raised her arms like lightning was going to shoot from her fingertips, mimicking her beloved, long-lost nemesis, when the youngest of the three – obviously the rookie – opened fire. It was a weapon of impressive caliber and had been discharged at close range – the force lifted her off her feet and sent her body, predictably, to careen backwards into a large wall of stacked crates. She smiled as her shoulder blades smacked into the box that broke her fall, her wounds already having healed and the misshapen hunks of lead already rolling away across the floor. She tilted her head up in time to watch the cube at the top of the stack teeter forward, almost in slow motion, before finally dropping away, the herald of a deadly crushing, splintering domino effect. She briefly caught sight of a blond head bolting away before the avalanche crashed down around her, engulfing her and her intended victims in a colossal pile of sharp wooden stakes and strangling bolts of cloth. For a split, panicked moment the wind was knocked from her and she couldn't suck it back in for all the weight that pressed down on top of her. Shortly thereafter she mercifully lost consciousness.

She awoke when she felt her right shoulder dislocate. She winced out of involuntary reflex at what should've hurt, noticing for the first time that her lungs could fill entirely with sweet, glorious air. She gulped and gasped as Jason pulled her from where he'd been digging through the wreckage.

"We've gotta go," he said, this time with his actual voice. The pounding in her ears evolved into a series of short, piercing bursts. "The accident has triggered some sort of alarm…"

"Heh," she huffed, sitting on her butt to keep from rolling down the mountain of debris, "you think this was an _accident_." Using her left hand to guide it back into place, she rolled her shoulder until the wound was set. An open set of fingers appeared before her eyes.

"Here, lemme help you get down."

Her line of sight followed the outstretched arm until it met the face to which it was connected. He had changed a bit in three years. He was taller, more defined, with a graceful elven jawline and cheekbones. A golden coat of facial hair peppered his chin, softening his wicked lopsided grin, but the lock of sandy colored hair that was persistent about hanging into his piercing azure eyes hadn't changed an ounce. While he didn't possess the qualities that had historically proven to be her '_type_', he did exude some sort of roguish, adventuresome charm that she found to be infectious. She returned his smile, and took his warm, confident hand.

"So, dad's got you in the business now, eh?" she asked, carefully testing an outcropping of jagged wooden planks with her foot.

"Against his better judgment. What sucks about _this_ situation is I'm actually here investigating other _rebels_. Dad thinks these fibers are linked with _several_ colony attacks, explosions and what not. Doesn't keep the Feds off my ass though."

Claire let her mind linger a moment on the fate of the doomed _Zephyr_.

"No, I suppose it doesn't," she admitted. "I've got a car outside – if we can get to it fast enough, maybe the Feds won't see us."

They followed the wall to the exit where, upon inspection of the eerily quiet nighttime landscape, they spotted a Federal police car idling, parked next to the rental.

"Shit…" Claire hissed.

"No problem," Jason reassured her with a gentle touch to her elbow as he inclined his forehead and stared at their pursuers intently. "Drive away…" he whispered twice. Claire felt her fingernails digging into the palms of her balled fists, her teeth digging into her bottom lip, praying they'd do exactly that. She got her wish.

"Not so tough to do with just one," he smiled, "we don't have long though 'til he comes to his senses. And chances are he's already called in the car."

"Can we meet your contact on foot?" She turned to him and he grimaced his negative response. "Didn't think so. Well, what choice have we got?"

They scrambled quickly to the car and sped away.

"You know," Claire began, pausing to allow Jason the opportunity to point directions, leading them to their rendezvous point, "once he comes to, he's gonna know he's dealing with a mod."

"Personally, I think he already did."

She drummed the steering wheel nervously. "Do you think he'll call in the Black Guard?"

"Probably."

_Great_. Good bye real paper in real envelopes. Good bye Monday mornings. Good bye normal office job with mediocre pay, yet decent benefits. Hello, again, running for her life and performing disturbing tasks to procure yet another life that would only, eventually, burst into flames. Welcome back, vicious unbreakable cycle – how she'd missed you. She drove for several blocks before she saw a sign.

"Um… where are we going…" Jason inquired, grasping the dashboard as his body crammed against the passenger door when Claire made a sudden left turn into the parking lot of a 26-hour shopping center (yes, _26-hour_ – the planet was a tad bigger than earth, right?).

"Picking up water guns," she stated plainly, ignoring his mystified gape. She was _perfectly sane_. "History has taught me many things. One of which is that we'll need them."

Thirty minutes later, possessing a gaudy pair of super-soakers, they arrived at a non-descript duplex in a quiet residential subdivision. Claire sat for a moment after Jason exited the vehicle, staring at the normalcy that comprised the tan vinyl siding with its windowed wooden door, complete with well-manicured bushes lining the walkway. She contemplated the inhabitant. This was another person like her… well _sort_ of – just another mod trying to fake a normal life, lying awake at night counting the bumps on the ceiling, blinking maddeningly in paranoia, terrified that someday this freedom would be stripped away – obsessing over every detail that would further insure the future. Forgetting that this person was a rebel – someone who'd willingly given away the prospect of an ordinary existence in order to provide others with the same chance – she regretted what her arrival could potentially do to disrupt this life and this quiet home. She didn't want to get out of the car… until she thought she saw a shadow move out of the corner of her eye. Shuddering from ancient flashbacks, she stepped out and briskly jogged to the open and waiting doorway.

She entered in time to witness a latina of average size and build grill Jason with questions.

"You sure you weren't followed? What about that car parked outside, eh? Is it _hot_? They got its _number_? Real stupid! And what the fuck is that, a fuckin' _water gun_? What, you gonna _drown 'em_? Is that it?!?"

Jason gestured at Claire, but couldn't manage to get a word past his lips.

"And how well you know this girl, eh? Swear to god, your papa's _crazy_."

Claire could feel her blood pressure rising.

"You ever been chased by the black suits?" she growled before she could stop herself.

"Excuse me???" her ungracious host countered.

"You know, _black suits_ – the _Black Guard_ – the _shadow men_. Have they ever _chased_ you?"

"_Please_. Never caught wind o' me after I got out of the camps. I've worked really damned hard to keep it that way to, which is why I _really_ don't appreci-"

"They use _gadgets_. _Lots_ of them. Little flying mini-robots that shoot things at you, and nasty red electric nets. _None_ of the stuff likes water. Here," she handed her soaker to the girl. "As for the car, it's not parked. It's _leaving_, and it _wasn't_ followed. My job was to deliver Jason, and I've done my part. I'm gonna go back to my life now. It's been a pleasure meeting you, you have a _lovely_ home."

Claire turned in time to see something move outside of the front window. She sighed and snatched back her water gun, bitterly chewing on her own words. She could hear the other girl open a drawer behind her, obviously looking for some very particular items – the kind that made heavy metallic clicking noises.

"Claire?" Jason started but was silenced.

"Shhhhh…."

"This way," the latina whispered, "to the garage. Let them come inside, I have a _surprise_ for them."

Claire took a step backwards before flinging her arms wide when the window suddenly crashed inward, bursting under the weight of a metal ball flashing with blinking lights and emitting a high-pitched screech that made her ears ring. Glass shards still protruding from her chest and arms, she took aim with her water pistol and doused the ball before it could unleash its sticky green sleeping gas. The object sparked and protested loudly before dying a violent death. Claire tossed a victorious glare over her shoulder at her companions, but the latina only had eyes for Claire's rapidly disappearing wounds.

"What the hell?!?" Jason cried, lifting the soaker in which he now had a bit more faith. Claire whipped back to watch a drone, with its disturbingly innocent toy hum, venture through the open hole of the window. She could see at least two more flitting around outside. What a circus.

"Shoot it Jason!" she cried. "Shoot it, or it'll shoot you!!!" They both sprayed a steady stream of water, drenching anything between them and the drone – Claire made her best effort to coat its sensor array. The barrel of a large handgun appeared in her periphery over her left shoulder – the latina had drawn the weapon she'd procured from the drawer and was preparing to fire.

"NO! No bullets! You'll get someone killed! The thing has a force field!"

She held out her arm, beckoning for a cease fire, when the machine dipped low to its left, seeming disoriented and lost.

"Quick," Claire directed, "we don't have much time. The water's confused its sensors, but the effect won't last forever. You said something about a garage, and a '_surprise_'?"

"This way!"

The trio scrambled into the kitchen and through a door that Jason slammed shut behind them.

"Oh my god…" he muttered when they heard a deafening bang come from inside the house followed by the thunderous sound of multiple sets of searching footsteps.

"Get in! Get in!" cried the latina, gesturing toward a Jeep whose front seat she occupied –standing with her feet on the floorboards, gripping the steering wheel to keep herself upright. Claire and Jason both neglected the conventional usage of the car doors and opted to jump in the old fashioned way. The engine roared to life but the vehicle didn't move. Claire turned from where she sat in the passenger seat to gape with wide, impatient eyes at the driver, only to find her hunched down, face pinched tightly in concentration. Her eyes snapped back to the door when it opened to present a black, shadowy figure.

He was unable to take another step. It started with an ominous rumble Claire could hear, before the bottoms of her feet began to vibrate. In a fraction of a second the innocuous tremor developed into a full-fledged quake, bending and flexing the boards in the walls and the door frame in unnatural bulges. The bucking floor tossed the black-suit's feet out of his control – he fell backwards and rolled out of sight, presumably to be further buffeted by the shockwaves rising from the uncompromising ground.

"Hang on!" the latina yelled as she yanked the gear shift into reverse and floored the gas pedal without opening the garage door. The thin metal provided minimal resistance and buckled easily to grant them their escape. They tore a giant swath through the bushes and across the soft, grassy lawn, flinging chunky clumps of black mud all over the drones and shadow men that attempted to make chase. The tires barked and squealed as they made several hairpin turns through the city blocks of the neighborhood until they reached a straight thoroughfare that would lead them away from civilization, north out to the countryside farmland.

"Yep, here they come," Jason sighed, turning to watch behind them. Two white Jeeps charged after them like a pair of angry rhinos. "We're gonna have to lose 'em."

"Let me get a bit further from the city. There's a bag under the passenger seat – get it out."

Claire pivoted on her hip to watch Jason retrieve a burlap sack from under where she sat. He reached inside and pulled out a pair of 9mms. She could tell by the remaining protrusions in the fabric that the bag was far from empty. He handed her one of the weapons.

"Do you know how to use this?"

She nearly laughed.

She turned the cold metal over, from one palm to the other, testing its lavish weight. It fit into her hand like a writer would hold a pen. She sat staring at it, with the wind whipping her hair about her cheeks and shoulders, realizing she was a puzzle whose pieces were scattered the day she faked her death and began her three centuries of solitude. The day Sylar blew back into her life those pieces were picked up and arranged, if not somewhat haphazardly. But this – _this_… was the final piece. Sitting in that seat, screaming down an open stretch of highway, desperately on the run, pursued by an entity that meant her no good… _this_ was her life. Had _always been_. _This_ was normal to her. She stroked her thumb down the hand grip before she rose up with her knees in the seat and held the weapon in her fully extended arms, lining up a tire in her sights. Jason ducked nervously. It had been ages since she'd felt so complete – it was amazing that all it took was a gun. She was _Claire Bennett_ and she was _alive_.

"When you live as long as I have," she said, "you pick up a few things."

She squeezed the trigger and Jason clamped his hands over his ears. The front passenger-side tire on the Jeep directly behind them exploded before completely disintegrating. The inertia, at the speed they were travelling, caused the vehicle to cartwheel out of control, taking it away never to be seen again. That didn't stop Claire from firing at the second Jeep. Jason fumbled for his own firearm before turning in his seat to join her.

The latina glanced at Claire momentarily before asking, "… who are you?"

"I'm Claire," she answered between pumping rounds.

"Angela," the driver replied, "and the pleasure's all mine!"

Several miles out of town Angela brought their Jeep to a screeching halt before leaping from the vehicle and running to stand behind, watching their pursuers draw nearer, waiting for a pinnacle moment. With a roar she brought her arms up, like she were praying to a vengeful and fickle goddess, and then sliced them down. The earth behind them split with a cacophonous boom, opening into a long, jagged fissure devouring collapsing dirt and tumbling rocks in its wake. No vehicle was going to get across that interrupted section of road. They were free.

Sylar had always told her that she'd never be normal. He'd promised her she was destined for something greater, but of course at the time she'd thought he was just… sick in the head. But now she smiled as the alien moons graced her shoulders with their whispery glow and the smoke from her gun wound hotly up her arm. She wasn't so angry anymore that he was right. A tiny part of her wished he could've been there to see her.

Because that was the day that Claire realized she might've be born to be a rebel.

~*~*~

*** _a few months later_ ***

Claire could start to see a pattern emerging in the missions she was being given. As precious and coveted as natural-borns tended to be, cellular regeneration was a tough trick to come by - especially without needing a regular injection to prolong the effect. The thought was humorously ironic - to be able to live forever... until one died from it. But because she was eternally hard to kill it could've been assumed that if a mission was particularly... troublesome, she could expect to be on it.

And because Duncan liked having a personal investment in the tasks he couldn't allow to go wrong, she saw a lot of Jason. His continued presence mollified her disappointment at being back on Earth a lot more.

Her courage fortified with the knowledge of how quickly she could literally become someone else (being an active rebel had its perks), she faced the Black Guard with a little less trepidation than usual. She, Jason, and two others had been asked to free some agents from a mod camp north of Dallas, Texas, along with anyone else they could liberate. The agents had been captured in the line of duty and possessed valuable intelligence. She had proven herself a force to be reckoned with, unstoppable as she'd moved amongst the shadow men, drawing their fire to ineffectually pummel her before she dispatched them with their own weaponry. Jason had used his ability to determine the best way to incapacitate the force field surrounding the camp. While he and Claire rounded up nearly one hundred individuals and countless crates of mod injections to a spot in the sprawling wilderness out on the open prairie, their partners procured a transport from a charter company in Corpus Christi under the premise that they were transporting produce for a local agricultural conglomerate. It was out in the open, as the sun was setting and groups were building small, concealable fires while they waited for the shuttle to safely arrive, that Claire saw for the first time how fragile the mods actually were.

For most of the day Jason had behaved unusually. His customary surefire aim and steady shots had become inaccurate and shaky, and he appeared clammy and light-headed. At first she'd thought he was just becoming ill, but was admirably pressing on – putting off his own convalescence in order to ensure his duties were performed. It wasn't until later, after she'd spent several unsuccessful minutes trying to get a pile of kindling to ignite, that she'd heard him vomiting in a distant pile of scrub. Alarmed, she'd opened her mouth to call for him but found she didn't need to as he was already making his slow return to her side. He removed from her hands the sticks she'd been rubbing and made a more enterprising attempt at building the fire.

"I need your help," he'd muttered to her before she could ask, keeping their conversation private. "I've waited too long… I'm too dizzy to do it by myself." Once the flames were cozily crackling away, he dug into an internal jacket pocket and produced a small leather-bound kit and one of the vials from the crates they'd stolen. The kit opened to present a syringe, a rubber tourniquet, and a collection of needles. "My organs are already starting to shut down."

While she pressed the plunger and watched the amber liquid slide into his vein, she understood how someone with naturally born cellular regeneration could be so brutally and jealously coveted. While she might not be able to hide the fact that she could mitigate any damage that was dealt her, she promised herself she would do her best never to reveal the origin of her ability.

"Rest," she told him, "I'll wake you when the shuttle gets here. You're gonna be fine now."

He nodded to her and stretched his legs out beside him, angling his body to get as close to the fire as he could without igniting accidentally. Her hands leapt from her lap as, unsolicited, he laid his head on her knee. Stunned into stillness, she didn't know what to do. Her nasty maternal instinct threatened to betray her again, demanding she provide him comfort when her heart wanted nothing to do with anything that would render it vulnerable. She couldn't afford to provide anyone with comfort when she couldn't allow herself to _receive_ it. Anything she would allow herself to love would eventually die. She wasn't happy _at all_ that she was being asked to step outside her protective cocoon of isolation.

And yet, she couldn't deny the spark of heat that bloomed somewhere beneath her belly. _Far_ beneath her belly, in parts she didn't want to recognize, embarrassed that they'd probably grown cobwebs from disuse. The pull of the natural sensation was hypnotic and intoxicating – and irresistible. She let her hand slide through his hair and down his smooth cheek purely in the interest of satisfying a need for physical pleasure. Unsettled, she wasn't sure whether or not she was pleased to see the shuttle when it arrived.

~*~*~

*** _one year later_ ***

Duncan was _trying_ to make her crazy.

The mission to which she'd been assigned was promising to test two of her greatest fears: the first – allowing herself to be captured by black suits; the second – getting married. She'd put in a lot of faithful servitude and had requested very little in return. She didn't quite know what she'd done to deserve this.

The same colony they'd left behind in the Leo sector the year before – the one breeding a fiber connected to unsupported rebel acts of terror – had also been suspected of tampering with mod injections as a base of several inhumane experiments in a camp that housed mods placed in local work assignments. It was believed that these experiments were the inherent cause behind the explosive operations. Because Claire and Jason had been chased from the colony before and their goal was to get inside the camp, it only made sense to send their still-familiar faces back to be captured, and what better guise than to be placed in one, singular home as a young married couple.

Claire wasn't exactly a born-again virgin. While she didn't invite a _lot_ of action, one didn't live for over three hundred years and _not_ occasionally succumb to carnal necessities. Typically, however, she didn't know the names of her infrequent bedmates since sexually transmitted disease wasn't really an issue for her. She knew nothing about them, they were strangers – random pieces of meat selected in much the same way, picked only for their suspected ability to perform their appointed task. To satiate her appetite.

Jason, on the other hand, was a friend that she'd wanted to keep that way.

They'd successfully shared a bed for almost two weeks without incident, maintaining the innocence of their actual relationship right up to the night before they'd been caught. And still, several weeks after they'd been rescued and the details of their mission tied up, they'd avoided contact with each other, refusing to acknowledge what had happened. Even that didn't last forever.

Claire was surprised at how much she used her college degree. Organizing refugees was very much like consulting others in how to run a business. It happened after a long evening of managing new IDs and researching potential job placements for the mods they'd been able to rescue, and even that came after getting them fed and a temporary place to sleep. She had returned home to her New York apartment, subsidized by rebellion funding while she was considered actively serving, and had just dropped a tea bag into a steaming cup, soothed by the calming sounds of a long, hot bath being drawn. A knock on her door disturbed her.

She channeled her father. Knocking made her nervous. There were two kinds of visitors – the expected kind, and the _un_expected kind.

"It's Jason," she heard through the door. Her shoulders dropped fractionally. "We need to talk about what happened. You know. _Between_ us."

He was probably right, but that didn't make her _want_ to. The last person who'd made her feel lonely was dead. She wasn't ready to let someone else take that place. She wasn't ready to admit she needed companionship. She wasn't ready to break every rule she'd made and let someone back into her life – someone else she'd have to let go of. She wasn't ready to nullify her human instincts to a broken heart again. No matter how badly she wanted to.

No matter how nice it would've been to share that hot bath with firm, exploring, massaging fingers…

Images from that night flashed all around her. He'd rolled over in the night and had absentmindedly tossed his arm over her, his hand landing softly to cup her right breast. She'd awoken immediately… he _hadn't_. She'd brought her hand around to quietly remove his… but instead found herself pressing it against her harder. _That_ had drawn his attention.

"Claire, c'mon… let me in. Don't I need to apologize or something? I don't know what to do here…"

He'd lifted his head from his pillow, blonde hair drifting into eyelashes that parted to give her a sleepy, quizzical expression. She'd shown him what she wanted. There was nothing to talk about – none of it was _his_ fault. She'd wanted it. _She_ was the one who'd squeezed his hand around her breast. She was the one who rolled over and kissed him, rubbing determined fingers down the front of his pajama pants, stroking, pulling… demanding… She'd practically begged him to give in to his masculinity, stripping her and climbing on top of her. And while there had been others in her life and she couldn't quite explain the difference, something about the way he panted against her damp, sweating neck as she gripped bruises into the small of his back, forcing him to pound into her harder and faster, made her feel alive in a way she hadn't felt in ages.

If she didn't answer the door, she was just going to crawl into that bath and pleasure her own frustrated self all night long.

She twisted the doorknob and pulled it open, unprepared to see the clear and present anguish carved over his youthfully devilish features. What had passed between them had _meant_ something to him. She was in trouble… yet was powerless to stop herself.

She drew him in, forgetting the door left standing wide open – she stood and embraced him for as long as he needed before she finally told him she was sorry. Then she asked if he was hungry. They slipped away for some late-night Chinese and the start to a relationship she wasn't sure she wanted… but probably _needed_ anyway.

~*~*~

*** _five years later_ ***

Claire and Jason Oglesby proved to be a dynamic duo, working very well together – better than some married couples who thrived on the daily distance their respective jobs granted them. They'd taken it upon themselves to place their home in the hotbed of Federal activity – the colony in the Pisces sector where the Intelligence office was housed. There was strategy in their placement – their employment had been planned specifically to put them in the position to glean the largest amount of information. They both worked in highly populated careers, where regular gossip flowed easily from loose lips. They earned their paychecks from a large bar and grill – Jason was a flirtatious bartender, and Claire was high-velocity wait staff. It was a chancy gig, the establishment purveyed itself heavily to Federal employees and their families. Their faces were still somewhat recognizable by the Black Guard, but something about spending the past three years _not_ ferrying refugees, _not_ running constantly for her life, having an _actual _job and paying _actual_ bills and coming home to an _actual_ warm body was…

She didn't want to name it. Putting a word to it would only fuel the delusion, make it seem more permanent. It would all eventually leave her.

She let the adjective remain a blank and continued to enjoy what she had while she had it. Carpe diem and all that.

It was late, two hours after closing time and there was a lot of cleaning left to do. It was the end of the work week on a payday, the dinner rush had clobbered her like a wild stampede. Her hair was a mess, her makeup was smeared, her feet were _killing_ her, but her purse was full and her clandestine notebook even more so. There was a rebel safehouse in the Cancer sector that was under suspicion – they could now, thanks to her, successfully head off what was sure to be a disaster otherwise.

"Jennifer!" her manager called to her from somewhere in the back.

"Yeah?!?"

"Wheel back that cart of glasses from the bar when you get a minute, will ya? Need to get 'em into the wash!"

"You got it!"

She had three more tables to wipe down then she'd be on it. She'd already managed to get the whole floor vacuumed on top of a laundry list of other duties. Soon she'd be able to succumb to her cozy bed's siren song.

Knowing she was alone on out on the floor, she allowed herself a moment of unladylike behavior in favor of letting her job take longer, requiring that she walk around to the other side of the table – she leaned all the way across, wiping with her arm in a long, sweeping arc, ignoring the way her skirt rode high up the back of her thighs. Until they were met by a blast of cold air. Someone had opened the front door.

Without taking her eyes from the table, mindful that she hadn't missed a spot, taking her job very seriously, she straightened and tugged her skirt back where it was supposed to be before continuing to push the soapy cloth in vigorous circles.

"We're closed," she tossed over her shoulder.

Then the realization that she'd _locked_ the front door hit her like a bucket of ice water.

She dropped her arms limply to her sides, her wet rag splattered to the floor. She couldn't see for the tears that had flooded her eyes, she couldn't breathe for the excruciating knot that gripped her throat.

She could smell him all around her, the same smell that had invaded her dreams centuries ago, twisting them into blood-curdling nightmares. The same smell she'd chased for years while she'd really learned how to use a gun. The same smell that had covered her on her wedding day – her _first_ wedding day. Something like leather and cinnamon, and maybe something a touch earthy or metallic. The scent she thought she'd never smell again.

She turned slowly, terrified he'd be a figment of her imagination, that what she'd see would be empty air – that he was nothing more than a ghost. Her hand shot up to clamp itself over her gaping mouth when she clearly saw the outline of his black silhouette in stark contrast to the fluorescent glare of the streetlights outside. Another wintry gust whipped the long coat her wore around his legs. He stepped inside – no locked door could ever restrain him, he was as wild as the wind – and left the elements behind. He stepped into the soft, yellow glow of the restaurant's ambient lighting. She locked her eyes onto his and refused to let them go – dark, fathomless, and _real_.

The grief she'd been suppressing since she'd told him goodbye finally rose to claim her. Consumed by the encompassing wave of blistering emotion, she bent at the middle and choked on a sob, with her hand still firmly placed over her wide open lips. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, letting hot, furious tears skip her cheeks to fall directly to the floor. Then suddenly she straightened, found her strength, and inhaled a lusty shuddering breath.

"…Gabe?" she asked, her hands pressed over her heaving belly.

He smiled a smile so sweet it was stabbing and painful, and reached a tentative arm out to her.

"Don't cry, Claire... not for me…"

**A/N #2: I dunno... she seemed awful happy to see him, didn't she... what's up with that?**


	9. 9 Nine Years

**A/N: Whew another long chapter!!! The longest in this Vol so far, I think. This happy author really only has one thing to say about this chapter: for anyone who is more than ready for some Sylaire at long last? Something? _Anything???_ Enjoy =D  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**9) Nine Years**

*** _several weeks ago_ ***

The bitter irony was that if he were looking for anyone else, and had Sylar's diabolically cunning intellect at his own personal disposal, his search could've been conducted much more efficiently. Despite the staggering number of abilities the Shadow Man possessed, none of them made him any better at math, let alone the kind of math that calculated this kind of algorithm. The first leg of the equation took some experimentation, trying to decipher the velocity at which the explosion would've flung Sylar's presumably intact yet lifeless body… which probably presumed a _lot_. He was able to access the architectural schema for the class of ship to which the _Zephyr_ belonged, telling him exactly how much of the volume comprising her lower decks would've been filled with atomic energy, and it was easy to discover the inventory of items that had been housed in her weaponry bays. Detonating a small object and analyzing the data regurgitated by the shuttle's sensors had given him a base to scale from. From there he had distance and he knew the time elapsed. It was _direction_ that provided him his greatest challenge, as _all_ vectors were plausible and the more time elapsed, the more direction worked _against_ him. The longer he spent doing math, the more math he'd end up having to do.

In the end, he went for broke and hunted down the ship's manifest, gleaning its contents, looking for names added at the last minute. He narrowed down his search to a small group of ten names – all inserted during a narrow window before the _Zephyr_ left orbit, all assigned to quarters on the same deck. Combining what he knew of the ship's trajectory toward her ending coordinates and the position of the deck on the ship, he was able to make a final conclusion.

He now had an ever increasing sector of space in which to begin his search, and a frequency for which to scan. He did _not_, however, anticipate his search would take him _nine years_, although he was probably fortunate it didn't take longer. He was probably miraculously lucky his search ended _at all_.

And yet, there he was, at the _end_ of it, staring at the jagged, crystalline form that occupied a fold-out bed in the shuttle's passenger area. The body's eyes were still open, but the pressure differential had ruptured all the vessels – they glittered like frozen rubies. He was stiff as an ice cube, hunched in a perpetually surprised expression, missing his left arm, part of his right leg, and his left foot. The scanner the Shadow Man still held in his hand, however, told no lies – it beeped like a nest full of starving and insistent baby birds, alerting the presence of Sylar's RFID tag.

This man was, in fact, Gabriel "Sylar" Grey.

Certainly no stranger to the things of which Sylar was capable, the black suit lamented not being able to use a power inhibiting collar. While it was still possible his body was just as useful dead as it was alive, there was simply no substitute for naturally pumping blood. It was for the best to allow him to revive, regardless of the risk. He wrapped his precious cargo in silvery, paper-like thermal blankets and gathered the supplies needed for intravenous fluids before settling in for a long wait.

A steady dripping had caught his attention some time later, after he'd input coordinates for their landing in the Pisces sector and called in for the requisite permissions. Putting down his fet, leaving it to reflect a backlit electronic version of Homer's Odyssey against the black viewport, he rose to investigate the sound. He nearly slipped in a puddle collecting on the floor, made up of a translucent pinkish brown fluid – a mixture of water, thawing blood, and space dust leaking from the wounds on Sylar's arm and legs. Checking them, he was able to note new bone growth, and the man's flesh was beginning to soften. The Shadow Man then put together a solution of liquid nutrients with a heavy tranquilizer which was administered intravenously. Feeling safer, his task complete, he switched off his fet and turned down another cot to get some sleep while the shuttle did the rest of the work. It would wake him before he'd need to control it manually, entering the planet's atmosphere to land at the docking station.

~*~*~

What woke Gabriel was a tingling sensation throughout his extremities, like his arms and legs had been asleep and were just coming back to life. He remained perfectly still, grimacing through the pins and needles, and he slowly opened his crusted eyes. The world swung wildly on an axis as he turned his head to survey his surroundings. Through the thick haze clouding his vision, he was able to make out a bag hanging from a pole near his left shoulder. He knew very well what was going on – someone _else_ was making a foolhardy attempt at subduing him with drugs. He would've rolled his eyes if it didn't make his stomach lurch. It was amazing to find that, centuries later, the universe was still breeding idiots.

He slid his numbed right arm across his belly, trying to reach for the needle buried in the crook of his left elbow. He noticed his feverish skin was damp with sweat, and maybe something else. He recognized the symptoms: he'd been dead. _Again_. The memory hit him with the same force as the blast that'd caused his death. The _Zephyr_ had exploded. Listless fingers fumbled with the line delivering the foul tincture to his striving bloodstream until at last he felt the sliding sting of the needle exiting his flesh. He remained where he was a few moments longer, waiting for his cellular regeneration to clear his head, and he briefly wondered how long he'd been floating in space. It hadn't been a bad way to die, he supposed, happening much more quickly than drowning. But the recovery, so far, was much more painful – icy crystals had run rampant through his thawing body once his blood had begun to circulate, millions of them tearing miniscule holes through everything that stood in their path. He felt like he was healing from zillions of microscopic bullet wounds. He _hated _bullet wounds. Lifting his hands out before him, he also noticed his left forearm was a distinctly different hue – it was _new_. Ughh… Yes, the next time he saw Claire they could goober and gush over lost limbs, it'd be _great_…

Despite his discomfort, he was anxious to ascertain the rest of his situation. Obviously he was in the possession of someone who'd rather not deal with him at his full capacity – this was someone who _knew_ him. His suspicion was confirmed after he'd jerkily dropped his legs over the side of his cot to sit upright and look around. Further up the bulkhead, closer to the cockpit of the shuttle, another cot bore the weight of a singular black suit.

This was odd. Gabriel'd had centuries of experience with these fuckers, and he'd never seen one act alone. This one was either defective in the head, or… scary. He decided he wasn't going to find out. He gingerly pushed the thermal blanket from his lap and stood soundlessly. If there was one thing Sylar was very, _very_ good at, it was sneaking. He employed a slight touch of telekinesis, lifting the IV pole an inch or so above the floor, hovering it behind him like a macabre sort of kite. Though the Shadow Man had no facial features, Sylar didn't miss the sharp gasp of surprise when he froze the suit, dropping the pole to land on its feet while he held him immobile. Sylar knelt down close – needle brandished between their noses, gripped tightly in his fingertips.

"You know," he began, using his free hand to knead the flesh of the other's elbow, "I _swear_. It just _kills_ me." The bad pun might've been intended, maybe. "I really need to get my dosing instructions tattooed somewhere on my body, don't I. Like, maybe across my forehead? Think that'd help?" He drew his threatening finger in a line above his own brow (with irony that wasn't lost on him) before he sunk the needle deep into his victim's arm with a quick jab. "Make yer job a little easier, wouldn't it?" He watched the liquid trickle into the tube. "I dunno, just a thought." He shrugged mockingly as he stood. "Well, I've always hated being the bearer of bad news, so it just _pains_ me to tell you that when you wake up… we're not gonna be where you were _thinkin'_ we were gonna be. But have a good sleep, mmkay?"

He did not retract his grip, but turned to saunter to the control panel in the cockpit. His fingers reached with purpose toward the console - specifically the panel dictating their landing coordinates - and froze in midair at the horrifyingly familiar sound of a large '_crack_'. Reflex snapped his eyes to the viewport although he didn't need to see it to know what was wrong. The thick plexi-cement had contained an unseen anomaly that had finally chosen to demand attention. Sylar held his breath unconsciously as he watched a jagged scar in the glass-like material tear across its length, inches at a time, spider-webbing into newer, smaller lines. What started as a hiss grew into a piercing wheeze and he could start to make out clouds of what looked like steam collecting outside to hang motionless in the vacuum. Their atmosphere was escaping.

"You have _got _to be shitting me." He threw his hands out and gritted his teeth, exhausting his telekinetic power in an attempt to keep the viewport from shattering, trying to plug the growing leak. "…hate fucking _spaceships_…"

His brows knitted together in confusion when he found that trying to keep the cockpit together was like clawing at open air. No matter how desperately he grabbed, the cracking surface slipped right through his invisible fingers. His chest began to heave in mounting panic – did the black suit have a new device that mitigated his powers? Something he hadn't seen?

There was a deafening crash and Sylar's jaw dropped, petrified, as he watched the entire nose of the shuttle crumple and fall away into the vast black void. His feet lost contact with the floor as he gasped with insatiably empty lungs, tumbling forward until - _BAM!_ - he collided against a very real viewport that was very much still intact and unchanged. He was pinned in place facing his vengeful attacker's outstretched black arm. So the guy wasn't _defective_...

"Cute trick," Sylar quipped through a clenched jaw, referring to the elaborate illusion that the suit had conjured in order to subdue him, "but I've got a few of my own."

He didn't need to be able to move his body to allow the wicked blue bolts their freedom to wreak havoc. They covered the bulkhead, they jolted the Shadow Man off his feet to where he landed dazed in a corner, and they fried the automatic flight console leaving manual controls their only option.

"You want some more you black bitch?" Sylar taunted, landing on his feet. He delivered another frying dose, sizzling the air around them. The Shadow Man screamed as his body convulsed, but that didn't stop him from shooting out a trembling arm, lifting Sylar and bashing him into the viewport in rapid succession until his head left a spongy, bloody print against the surface. He dropped him and scrambled to his feet, digging into a compartment in his utility belt, presumably for an inhibitor collar. The last thing Sylar wanted that man to have access to was his fucking utility belt.

"Oh, you can just about kiss my ass," he growled as he blinked the stars from his eyes, crouching on the floor. The belt zipped from the Shadow Man's waist while his nimble fingertips were still undoing a clasp, leaving him empty-handed. It landed in Sylar's waiting palm. The black suit squared his shoulders and clenched his fists. The belt turned into a spitting cobra whose scaly body struck out to snap its fanged jaws a hair's breadth from Sylar's nose. He squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his fingers around what his brain _knew_ was metal. He used his stolen power of disintegration to begin breaking down the matter, intending to render the belt and its components useless. Before he could make much headway, he was interrupted by electrifying blue energy emanating from the Shadow Man's fingers, splayed open at his sides. Sylar dropped the belt and grabbed at the console behind his back, shock waves rippling through him and lighting the outlines of his gnashing teeth.

"How many fucking powers do you _have_?!?" he yelled, hostile as a hornet's nest, hoping he'd seen the last one.

"The same could be asked of you," the Shadow Man finally spoke, glowering over him. The belt left the floor. Sylar couldn't let it reach its destination. While Gabriel had always been bookish, and hardly one someone would consider '_physically capable_', Sylar was a bit dirtier – he thought maybe it might be time for a good old fashioned fist fight. He launched himself from the floor to bury his shoulder deep into the Shadow Man's gut, bending him in half and throwing him backwards. He landed on top of the man, throwing heavy punches, satisfied once he'd heard the dull '_clunk_' of the belt as it hit the floor unattended.

Somehow, very unfortunately, the black suit got his hands free. He gripped one around Sylar's throat, just under his jaw, and lifted him up with a force he hadn't quite expected. The other fist barreled into his chest, shattering his rib cage. Great – _super-human strength_ was added to the list. _Just wonderful_. He rolled away with a grunt, spewing thick splatters of frothy blood while his crushed insides began to repair themselves.

The Shadow Man stumbled from his knees to his feet, making a sudden move to grab the belt. Sylar flung a hand toward him, tearing him away and plastering him against the bulkhead. The move had been anticipated, however, and the black suit did the same, simultaneously pinning Sylar in a mirrored position across the shuttle. They were held there in a tense stalemate while the utility belt glittered innocuously between them. The Shadow Man didn't dare let Sylar go. Sylar, on the other hand, was a lot more daring.

He kept one palm against the bulkhead, letting the inanimate object feed him information, years of stored physical memories. The black suit had woken up here once, long ago. Before departing on his journey he'd checked his items, assuring himself everything was in its rightful place. Sylar knew which compartment held the collar. He took a deep, calming breath, and with a move as quick as lightning he let go of his opponent and ripped the collar from its pocket to fling it directly around the other's neck like a game of horseshoes. The Shadow Man clawed at the offending object, bellowing in frustrated defeat. Sylar crumpled, exhausted, to his knees on the cot he'd occupied earlier, panting from exertion.

"Jesus fuckin' _Christ_, dude…"

"You have no idea what you've done!!!" The unusual black suit made one last charge, leaping from where he'd landed, murderous intent plainly obvious, but was easily buffeted aside with a final assault of Sylar's well-seasoned telekinesis. He tossed him carelessly headlong into the viewport with a loud '_thud_' after which he collapsed to the floor and grew still, his shared cellular regeneration no longer functioning to return to him his consciousness.

Sylar had _every_ idea what he'd done – he'd forcibly escaped capture _yet again_. He was _more_ than a little tired of the fighting. In the process of bending to lift the black suit's limp form to a cot where he could be securely bound in place for the remainder of their trip to… _wherever_, a weak alarm began to sound. Some part of their scuffle had damaged atmospheric controls – they were _still_ screwed. The ship was flying blind in the middle of space and was running out of air. Gabriel was confident he could fix the problem – he could fix _anything_ – but he was running out of time. Thirty minutes later, surrounded by a cloud of componentry and loose wiring working frantically on his back under the wide open console, he gasped a final breath before passing out, allowing the metal pieces to clatter to the floor around him.

~*~*~

Gabriel woke up, dismayed that he'd managed to lose even _more_ time, beginning to feel himself start to disconnect from the universe. He was glad, however, that _this_ time he wasn't groggy from some sort of chemical effect, even though he found his surroundings to be dishearteningly uncomfortable. The air had a chilly bite to it and his blanket was too thin, and the lights were painfully bright white – _interrogation_-style. He was reminded of a time when he'd woken up in a cutting-board prison cell on a space station ages ago… Was he under observation? Was he in trouble? Was… was this a hospital bed?

"I think he's awake," he heard a voice mutter from across the room. "Agent Krtek?" Footsteps were obviously bringing the speaker, and maybe one other, closer. Why was that name familiar…? Oh yeah, _that's_ right – _he_ was supposed to be Agent Tom Krtek. _That's _how it was pronounced… Two faces loomed into his plane of vision, coming into sharp focus. One was an older gentleman, the lines on his forehead only further accentuated by his dark, receding hairline. The other was a younger, red-headed, and tightly freckled man with impish features and quick blue eyes.

"I'm Agent Dover, Director of Field Operations," the older man said, stooping his posture to take a seat next to the bed, "this is Riley. You know, you're _really_ damned lucky you were found. Freighter almost mowed you down, and not a minute too soon either – you guys were sitting on ten percent atmosphere. Run into a little trouble, _Agent_?" There was a sharp tone in his voice that was unmistakable – it set Gabriel on edge. He was too dazed to answer the question appropriately.

"…where am I?"

"Your _original_ rendezvous point, Pisces sector. I've got you marked down as MIA after the _Zephyr_ blew up. But _here_ we find you gallivanting around the cosmos in a dilapidated shuttlecraft… Federal Intelligence doesn't take kindly to rogue agents, _Krtek_. I would really like to know why it's taken you _nine years_ to report for duty."

Uhh… _nine years_?!?

"And don't tell me," he continued, "that you got sucked into some kind of hole in the time-space continuum and, for _you_, you've only been gone an _hour_. You don't get to where I'm sittin' without hearing a lot of _bullshit_. I wanna know _how_ you've survived," he started ticking on his fingers, "_why_ you didn't show up _immediately_ after, and I _really_ wanna know why you're brutalizing one of your own damned Guard! You're lucky Riley, here, still had a file on you! Life would've been pretty damned hard trying to get around as the _walking dead_, you know that?"

Riley pinched the bridge of his nose in apology.

"I want a full report on my desk within _forty-eight hours_ after you get out of this hospital or, you and me?" With this, Dover rose and disappeared from view, presumably to head toward the door. "We've got a _big_ problem."

The fleeting thought Gabriel'd had apparently _nine years_ ago about the steady paycheck? It went away. To hell with _this_. Dover had _no clue_ how fortunate he'd been that Sylar hadn't had his way – there would've been a '_big problem_', alright. A big _messy_ problem, likely involving intestines and balloon animals. Hey, he could keep him from killing, but he couldn't keep him from being creative. Before he allowed a wolfish grin to spread to his face, he noticed Riley hadn't budged, and his eyes were glued to the door. As soon as they both heard it shut, he turned to face him.

"Are there any letters you'd like me to send to your mom?"

So… _that_ was unexpected. Riley was a _weirdo_, no problem. He decided it was probably for the best to play along.

"Ummm… no…?"

"Dude. Are you _sure_ you don't have any _letters_ to send to your _mom_???" Riley's head tilted to the side and his eyes widened, obviously trying to import the significance of the jibberish he was babbling. Was this some kind of code? … was Riley a rebel? Gabriel's jaw just worked soundlessly – the whole situation was becoming a bit too surreal. A creeping sense of inescapable homesickness was threatening to overcome him, especially knowing that he really didn't have anywhere to go. Riley sighed.

"Alright, nevermind… get better soon." Gabriel was relieved he was no longer expected to answer. With those parting words, Riley stood and followed the steps of his superior officer. It took a few moments after the door latched shut for Gabriel to notice there was something stuffed in his palm, like a wad of paper. Given the mysterious circumstances of its arrival he thought it best to keep it a secret, leaving it under the blanket while he drew it up to his chest. He tossed over onto one side and pulled the ineffective expanse of cloth up around his ears and eyebrows, having a private peek at the clandestine note. It was handwritten, and was from Riley. It contained only three lines:

'_He suspects you. I'm getting you out of here. Go with Tanna – you can trust her._'

As if on cue, the door slid open one more time to admit, as he pulled the blanket back to peer over his left shoulder, a tall, tan brunette. She wore a nametag on the shirt of her mauve-colored scrubs that read '_Tanna_'.

"Hello," flipping through some paperwork on her clipboard, she discovered his name, "Tom. How do you feel about getting cleaned up? I'm here to help you into the shower – does that sound good?"

His day was suddenly sounding a _lot_ better. Even though his ability had returned him to perfect health hours ago, he was more than willing to play the part of the invalid – it'd been far too long since he'd let a pretty girl undress him. He made a grand show of weakly sitting up and letting her ease him off the bed and guide him to the sanitary facility in the corner of the room.

The instant the sliding door concealed them she dropped her cheerful demeanor. She dug up under her shirt and procured a wad of clothing.

"Here, put this on," she directed bluntly before turning her back to him. He would've been disappointed if he hadn't already expected his luck to fail. Still, he frowned as he began to strip himself, _un_assisted. He tugged on the khaki pants and buttoned the white shirt before slipping into the shoes he found tucked in his pockets.

"Now what?" he asked when he was dressed, tossing a long coat around his shoulders. She turned and grasped him firmly.

"Hold your breath and close your eyes."

He'd barely had the time to suck in one long inhale when he felt himself become dizzyingly weightless.

"Okay," he heard Tanna's voice ringing in his ears. He opened his eyes to find them standing under a huge willow tree in an expertly manicured, lush green park. She had teleported them. He felt an old familiar tension bunching the muscles in his neck, begging for release, and he started to feel a little irritable. He swallowed, trying not to salivate. "_Stay here_." It was hard to remember that people in this day and age didn't really _know_ him. "Riley will be here in thirty minutes to give you further instructions." With that, and not even so much as a goodbye, she popped out of existence. It was probably the best thing she could've done.

He could feel Sylar clawing at him, in the back of his mind, like a housecat begging to be let in. Their hunger for discovery was insisting he return to the hospital… hunt her down… the need was intoxicating and was clouding through his better judgment.

But she'd helped him. She never even saw the killer in him, just assumed the best and _helped_ him. No one had _ever_ helped him – no one but Claire. And Maggie. Others would need the nurse, too - he couldn't kill someone so guileless… He dropped to his butt and focused intently on red flowers until the sound of Riley's voice brought him back to reality.

"You need a really good cover story... or maybe a new identity. There are some people -"

"You know, thanks but _no _thanks?" he said as he rose. "To be quite honest, I didn't exactly _live _the past nine years, you know? To me, I just walked out into this world a few weeks ago and I haven't been able to stop running long enough to even _breathe _ever since. And I've done a lot more running than anyone _you _know, I promise. You guys... you saved me, I realize that, and I'm more grateful... than you will _ever _know because, let's face it, you don't know me or anything about me... but I'm not exactly a _people_ person so... I'm not really interested -"

"That tattoo on your wrist - it's _old_. _Really _old. I researched it - you were in prison a _long time_." He took a very tentative step forward, holding up a placating hand. "I did some research on _you _too. I know more about you than you think I do, Sylar."

A nagging bit of empathy picked up the man's palpable fear, despite the boldness of his actions and words. Riley may not have been a formidable person, but he was a rebel equally desperate for his help as Gabriel was in return – he was a pillar of courage and sincerity. Sylar let his temper simmer down a bit, although a childish part of him was bitterly jealous of Riley's integrity. Riley was _likeable_ – Sylar _wasn't_.

"I've got a hunch," the agent spoke through his reservations, "that you're really damned good at _hunting_ people… right?"

Sylar darkened his eyes in response.

"I know why they put you away, Sylar. I know how you got your abilities. You might be the most powerful man in the universe right now, did you know that? _And_ you're a natural born… I don't think you know how… _much_…" Riley sighed and slumped his shoulders, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He kicked at a clump of grass, continuing once he knew how. "My… _wife_ and I… we were in a camp together. We were both sent out on work releases, three month contracts each. Different sectors, different colonies. We got to talk to each other for fifteen minutes a week – that was the time allotted to us, and we were monitored. One day she had been sent with her case worker to pick up some supplies for the man she worked for. The store was robbed: her case worker, one employee, and three by-standers were all killed. It went down so fast no one really saw what happened, all they knew was my wife was still standing and she wore a white band on her arm. It was assumed she was responsible, simply because she was a mod. She was _mauled_ to death. I didn't find out until four days later, when she didn't call."

Riley turned his back to him, taking in a view of the city skyline – it was no secret Pisces was richly cosmopolitan, and enjoyed eternally spring-like weather, even if it were sometimes damp and cold. "When I got back to the camps at the end of my release, rebels had shown up to try to free us. There were riots, incited over what had happened to Karen. Some of us got out, others didn't. In retaliation, the Feds withheld mod injections, blaming rebels for sabotaging a supply transport, which everyone knew was complete _bullshit_. People died there. Friends, my wife's brother, his kids."

He abruptly spun around and charged forward a couple steps, causing Gabriel to retract out of reflex. Riley thrust his hands out in front of him, allowing the cuffs of his shirt to ride up over his wrists. There appeared to be two tiny scars, one on each arm, until they popped open to reveal a pair of wet, greenish, pointed appendages.

"Stingers," Riley said. "Poisonous. I suppose it could be deadly, I dunno. I'm also immune to salmonella poisoning – don't ask how I know. But my life is complete shit – I've lost everyone I've ever loved – because my great-great-great granddad wanted to make himself into this, and now I've _inherited_ it. I gotta ask you, Mr. Sylar, what exactly were you trying to make _yourself_ into?"

Riley's eyes were so pleading, Gabriel didn't know what to say. He was pretty damned sure he didn't want to hear, '_Well, I had given up on ever being loved, so I wanted to become the greatest evil the world had ever known just so I could stop hurting…_' Riley dropped his arms to his sides and squared his shoulders.

"You don't realize it, but someone as powerful as you… someone as _unstoppable_… you mean _everything_ to us. This _thing_ I have, this _ability_… I would gladly give it to you. I would _gladly_ give up my life if it meant that someone like you could use it to free our people."

Gabriel lowered his gaze in defeat. Claire's voice whispered to his conscience from across a deep mist of time, asking him what was his purpose – what was the point of collecting these abilities, _really_? Hadn't he wanted to storm the enemy stronghold once? Be a one man army? Wasn't that why he'd stolen the list of names from a missile silo in Oklahoma? Isn't that why Claire had chased him like a rabid bloodhound for as long as she did?

"I know you killed people, Mr. Sylar. If there's ever been anybody you wanted to make that up to, this would be a great opportunity."

Anger suddenly welled up like a bonfire in his belly. He wasn't sure what exactly he _did_ need, but the lecture certainly wasn't on the list. "Don't you preach to me about missed oppor-fuckin'-tunities!!!" A spark escaped him to singe a few leaves draped around them, largely hiding them from public view. He could smell Riley's anxiety reach a new level. He almost couldn't stop himself, he was spinning out of control. "I've broken bones for lesser transgressions, Riley – you know that, don't you? I think you do. Spilled blood, all that." He furrowed his brows against his eyes as he sneered and took a challenging step forward. "I'm so unstoppable, right? Your personal fuckin' savior? A fuckin' _murderer_?!? What would you do if you knew the whole reason your world is so fucked up and your life is such shit is because they _got _me? What if it was _all_ because of me? Because I stopped running and let them come and get me? What would you do if you knew your wife was dead because of me?!?" He rose a finger, but only to point. "I don't need your fucking guilt trip, and I don't need to hear about any fucking missed opportunities!!! "

"The first thing I would do," Riley answered bravely, "if that's what I knew, would be to _beg_ you to not make it all for nothing."

Sylar hungered for the sticky red taste of iron. He hated how envious he was of this man, wanted nothing more than to scream in frustration and loathing, tear him limb from limb for being everything he still didn't quite know how to be… but on the other side lay the admiration that kept him from killing him. He closed the distance between them and met Riley nose to nose.

"Fuck you."

"Does that mean you'll help us?"

Gabriel held the man's gaze steady, blowing steam through his nostrils like an stubborn, menacing bull. And then it hit him. It wasn't anger he was feeling, or jealousy. It was _fear_. He was _afraid_ of trying to be something someone could love – he was _afraid_ of trying to be the hero – because he was terrified of _failing_. It was easier to just _accept_, that… but then… Maggie'd taught him a hard lesson about acceptance, hadn't she…

_Don't make it all for nothing._

He closed his eyes in reluctant acquiescence and sighed.

"What do I need to do."

"I have a contact," Riley said after swallowing thickly, "he and his wife both work for the Go-Getter Bar and Grill on Piedmont Street. If you go there after hours you can catch one of them alone. They can get you a cover story and a really convincing report you can put on Dover's desk Monday morning. Go there tonight."

Gabriel nodded slowly. "Piedmont Street."

"It's about sixteen blocks north of here."

"Sixteen blocks north."

"You really can't miss it."

"Yeah, can't miss it."

"Here – give them this." Riley handed him a sealed envelope. "It's a letter detailing the entire account of how you got here – even things _you_ won't remember. It'll help you guys piece something together. And take this," he said, digging another envelope from his pocket, this one smaller and blue.

"What is it?"

"Train ticket to the shuttle station. The freighter that found you brought you here to Carver City because it's a shuttle port city – it's the colony's link to space – there was nowhere else for it _to_ take you. The Federal Intelligence building, however, is in Itasca, on the coast – it's about a four hour flight. Shuttle flight costs are covered for Federal agent traffic, just show them your badge – it's in your pocket." He grasped Gabriel's hand firmly as he handed over the envelope. "I have to go. _Don't be seen_ tonight."

Gabriel shifted his features, this time mimicking the face of the officer who'd replaced Bob after he'd retired centuries ago. "That won't be a problem."

"Yeah? It'd be a bigger help if you got rid of that RFID tag in your wrist. It'd keep the Black Guard off your tail."

His mysterious capture by the Shadow Man suddenly made a lot more sense. Fortunately for both he and Riley he was no stranger to digging items out of open flesh wounds.

"And Mr. Sylar? _Thank you_." Riley paused a minute to lend significance to his words before turning and leaving the park.

Left standing a little lost and bewildered in a world that was much larger than the one he remembered, Gabriel was nearly overcome by the sudden craving for a roast beef sandwich. It had been nine years since the last time he'd eaten.

~*~*~

Gabriel had let his disguise drop the instant he'd seen the back of her head. He hadn't even meant to, it had happened completely by accident but in hindsight he thought maybe it was because, since she was the only person in the universe who really _knew_ him, he was unable to be anybody but _himself_ for her.

"Hello, Claire," he'd tried to say, but brutal emotion closed his throat around the words, choking them off to an inaudible whisper. Some unidentified thing had alerted her to his presence, nonetheless, and he stared transfixed as she straightened, allowing the clinging black fabric of her skirt to slide lovingly down the backs of her short, slim thighs. In nearly slow motion, the rag she held slipped from between her pink fingertips to tumble, forgotten, to the floor. And then… the fates smiled as she turned her eyes to him… glistening… _so_ beautiful.

He was nearly three hundred and forty years old – almost three and a half _centuries_ – and there had never been _anyone_ in his _entire life_ that had been _this_ happy to see him. He didn't deserve it.

"Don't cry, Claire," he smiled sadly to her, finding his voice, unconsciously reaching out to see if she'd let him touch her face, "… not for me." _Anyone but me._

Finding her breath and wiping away her own tears (much to his chagrin), she took a small step forward and –

"JENNIFER!!!!"

… was stopped in her tracks.

"WHERE ARE MY GLASSES?!?"

"Gimme a minute, will ya?!? Christ!!!"

She didn't budge, just continued to drink in the sight of him, and he was almost too captivated to stop her. _Almost_. He wouldn't get her in trouble – he'd caused her enough.

"I'll wait," he told her, thumbing over his shoulder to indicate the parking lot. He held her gaze as he backed away from her. She chewed her lip while she tried not to smile to largely.

Twenty minutes later he was perched on the hood of a stranger's car, the collar of his coat flipped around his neck and his head held low, trying to protect his ears from the harsh, chilly wind. At the sound of the closing door his head jerked up and excitement flip-flopped in his belly as he leapt to the ground. Claire grew still for a small moment, still in obvious disbelief, before she remembered the feet beneath her. She began to charge toward him before she was abruptly halted in her tracks by a passing car… one that stopped between them.

"Hey baby, I hope I didn't keep you waiting long," he heard a male voice call from inside. "There was a stalled car on the bypass."

"Oh, no, no," she lied with _almost_ imperceptible disappointment, "just in time!"

Gabriel tucked his body into the shadows between the cars in the parking lot, something strong seizing a vice-like grip around his heart. What had Riley said? His contact had worked here… with his _wife_. But what did _he_ care, what she did with her life? She didn't _owe_ him anything. She wasn't _his_… even though she was gonna outlive her douchebag husband so much he sure as _hell_ couldn't claim her either… Didn't she say she was never going to get married again? Even if she didn't, hadn't she learned her lesson? What could've changed her so drastically in the past nine years… that the previous three _hundred_ hadn't?

… had it been _his death_…?

He ducked low and held back a growl when the driver, a young blond gentleman, stepped out to escort his wife to the passenger side of the vehicle, opening the door for her and helping her inside. Gabriel tried to assuage his growing rancor by telling himself the man was at least kind to the girl, obviously cherishing her presence, however temporary he may be for her. Yes, '_temporary_' – he liked the term. He watched the car as it pulled away, it's sweet, golden-haloed occupant scanning the parking lot, heartfelt apology carved deeply into her features, accompanied by a magic, blushing pink glow to her cheeks – one for which he claimed _full_ responsibility.

~*~*~

There was no way Claire was going to get any sleep, regardless of how achingly exhausted her body was. He was _still alive_ – she'd _seen_ him. He was _real_. Reality could drop away around her – crumble like an ancient parchment – and there'd still be _him_. She was _never_ going to be alone. She bubbled with something like freedom or joy. How could she have been so naïve for this long? Sylar always had a '_weird cockroach power_' – he was by far the hardest thing in the universe to kill, even harder than _her_. How could she have had such little faith. She lay in bed, staring at the stars through the upstairs window of their duplex, trying not to hum happy hymns to herself and wake up her unsuspecting husband when a sudden light tossed a pale , yellow glow across her face.

The porch light had come on… by itself.

She gingerly lifted her weight from the bed, stepping lightly into her fuzzy blue slippers, pausing in the dark to be sure she could still hear Jason softly snoring. She swaddled herself in her robe as she padded down the stairs and silently opened the front door. Gabriel didn't turn to face her, but remained still where he sat on her front porch, gazing up into the night. His body language spoke volumes about his mood, and Claire knew Sylar well enough to know there was a right way and a wrong way to approach him when he was upset. She kept quiet as she took a seat next to him, ignoring the errant spark of static that arced between their shoulders as they brushed a quick, whispery touch. She gave it a minute before she spoke, following his line of sight into the stars, as if there were something written there only the two of them could read.

"What happen-"

"Here," he interrupted, withdrawing suddenly to dig into a jacket pocket. He procured an envelope which he offered between his fingertips without making eye contact. "This explains everything. I need a cover story, quick. I leave at noon later today."

"No problem, I wasn't sleeping anyway," she said with meaning as she rose. "Come in but keep _quiet_."

Of _course_ he would – Sylar was _very_ good at keeping quiet.

She tried to lead him into a small office – one that used to be a dining room off to the side of their kitchen – but he paused at the foot of the stairs, staring up their length with an insidiously familiar glower on his face. She punched him in the muscle of his arm, grabbing his attention and the full heat of his glare.

"Knock it off," she commanded, pointing. "You will not slice _anything_ of _anyone's_ off in this house, got it? I know _exactly_ how much you hate being _shot_, and I am _not_ above -"

"You weren't supposed to get married again, Claire." He loomed over her, threateningly, narrowing his dark lids.

"… _God_, it's good to see you…"

He couldn't respond – she'd stolen his breath.

"Come," she tugged his sleeve, "this way."

He obeyed and followed her dazedly to a large wooden L-shaped desk where she sat before a holographic console. She entered a code that allowed the device to connect to her neural tap, bringing the display to a spectral blue glowing life. With a quick finger she flipped through a few options until she opened a new document, at which point she opened Gabriel's handwritten letter and read it. He watched in wonder as words began to fly in rows across the blank page portrayed by the console, presumably at the demand of the tap creating the direct link between the device and her brain.

"Well, obviously," she began, "the black suit was a rebel in disguise. He managed to capture a Federal agent in order to cart him off to some safehouse where he could be tortured mercilessly for information," she took a sip from a water glass that she'd left there earlier in the day, "and he'd made off with you after he'd planted the bomb that blew up the Zephyr. He placed you under some kind of weird hypnosis with one of his wicked _mod_ abilities, but didn't get far enough from the ship for the shuttle's guidance systems and environmental controls not to be affected by the blast. And here's the _good_ part," she took another sip. "He took you off to the safehouse in the _Cancer_ sector where they kept you captive for nine years – it's under suspicion and is soon to be raided. They found this out from _you_ – and I'm killing two birds here – so they _abandoned_ it – emptied it and shipped everyone _out_ – and the '_suit_' packed you back on the shuttle to return you to Federal Intelligence with a hypnotic suggestion that once you get there you kill everyone you see. But, it didn't work, right? Because in the middle of the process you snapped out of it, and there was a fight -"

"You _bet_ there was."

"- and you managed to get the upper hand, collaring the mod and taking him down. At that point, you realized the shuttle was faulty and slowly leaking atmosphere. You tried to fix it but just couldn't, and they know the rest."

He just looked at her and blinked for a minute.

"What?"

"Are you serious?"

"Umm… were you hoping for something more explosive? I don't exactly write _screenplay_…"

"You're very creative, Claire, but I could've done that myself."

"Oh yeah? Well, you don't have any of _this_," she told him plainly, holding up a stack of very official-looking Federal Intelligence letterhead – watermarked and imbedded with tracking, the whole works. "Your report ain't gonna be too awful damned _official_ without it. Plus, I can also corroborate your story with some of our double agents who can support your case with invented circumstantial evidence – we can come up with stuff, make this very believable, more than you can do on your own. And on top of _that_ even, I can use this situation to save a lot of lives in that safehouse in the Cancer sector – that part's _real_."

"Alright, alright, fine. Just… print it so I can let you get back to bed." He turned from her and mussed his thick, softly spiked hair, resigned to do nothing about the awkward silence that suddenly fell between them. As the printer filled the night with a gentle, muted swishing she entered his peripheral vision by his right shoulder. He lowered his chin, unable to meet her gaze.

"I know I wasn't going to get married again. But that was before…" she trailed off. "It's just that… I didn't expect you to survive that explosion, Gabe. And… I guess I was just so happy that you were _finally_ _flippin' dead_ that I had to do _something_ to torture myself, bring it all back down to normal. Because if I didn't, you know, _life_ was just gonna do it anyway."

For once, he didn't appreciate her sarcasm and he didn't hide it. She sighed.

"Alright. Fine. I took for granted that there was always going to be someone in my life – even at the end of time. And then you were _gone_. And… I got lonely. I missed you, alright?" He met her eyes. "I admit it. I _missed_ you."

"You married some random dude because you _missed me_?"

The printer stopped, accentuating the tension in the room with even more pointed silence. Claire tore the papers from the tray and thrust them into his middle.

"Here. You're set. Welcome to the Rebel Resistance Movement."

He smoothed the papers into even folds before placing them in a jacket pocket. He nodded and met her level stare one last time.

"Thank you. _Again_."

"Yeah, the next time you need my help, maybe you'll think twice about chiding me for the choices I've made with my life."

He didn't want it to sting, but it did. His hand moved on its own accord to smooth a golden lock that was curling the wrong way from sleep. Something deep inside grew hot when she didn't flinch. Suddenly incredibly uncomfortable, itching for escape, he recognized it was time to make his exit. He quickly crossed the living room and had his hand on the doorknob when her voice stopped him.

"The last time you left, you didn't say good bye. You said, '_see you later_.'"

With his chin perched over his shoulder, he told her, "And I _did_, didn't I?"

A corner of his mouth twitched into a quick smile before he disappeared through the door and into the frigid night air. From where she stood Claire could hear the ignition on the motorcycle he'd stolen from the restaurant parking lot roar as he sped away.

~*~*~

Gabriel hoisted his new duffel a little higher on his shoulder, turning slowly to watch as the line of people behind him grew impossibly longer. The train station was total chaos. There was duty-free mall attached, though – since most traffic was bound for the shuttle port – and he'd been able to access his fictitious credit account to load up on some clothing, some other toiletries, and a couple books that looked interesting. He almost felt human again, if not a little melancholy.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing away a budding migraine, wincing at the sudden raucous din of his train pulling into the station. He suppressed a shiver as the airbrakes whistled, letting off their incredible pressure – the piercing screech was too similar to the sounds that still careened through his nightmares. He managed to keep his composure as the passengers started to disembark.

A well-dressed gentleman in a long, black coat stepped off the dais and threw his arms wide, beaming a smile and a booming laugh as his young son barreled through the crowd to crash into his midsection, digging his small face into the thick, plush fabric. He picked the boy up and twirled him happily, tossing him upside-down over a broad shoulder as he walked with his squirming passenger to kiss his eagerly waiting wife. Gabriel didn't know who he hated more, the boy or the man… His bitter train of thought was arrested the instant he caught the familiar sight of luminous green pools over the woman's shoulder in the distance.

They were framed by dark circles, sunken deep from lack of sleep and an aching soul. She'd tossed her hair into a hasty pony-tail and was currently tugging at her sweater, warming her elbows. He must've let something pass his face because she broke into a run. The planets aligned and the crowd parted before her. He thought she might slow her pace before she reached him but she didn't and he braced himself. She slammed into him, encircling her arms tightly around his neck, pressing her hot face into his cheek, knocking the air from him in one shocked, contented moan. She consumed him with her embrace. He'd never been _held_ by anyone before, not like _this_.

He didn't take another breath. He never needed to breathe again. He just let his mouth hang open but his eyelids slide shut.

She balled her fists into his coat and squeezed him so hard he thought she might cut off the circulation to his brain. He didn't care, as long as his arms still worked – he brought them up, trembling, to smooth his hands across her waist and up her back, indulging one to twist into her silky, lightly perfumed hair. The chill in the air around them melted away and he marveled over how someone who had managed to carve such a formidable space out of his life could possibly feel so small in his arms.

"You were supposed to say, '_I'll see you later_,'" she whispered hotly against the shell of his ear, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine and straight into his groin, unbidden. He rolled his still-closed eyes in pleasure as he finally inhaled and puffed a small laugh on her soft, sweet neck. She drew away slightly, only enough to mesmerize him with her gaze without removing the warmth of her body. He dropped his hands to hold her waist. Only a wisp of space existed between their noses and he was suddenly desperate to taste her. He'd never felt so helpless and pathetic in all of his long life. He'd tell her anything she wanted, he was unabashedly _hers_.

"You know I will," he breathed, entranced.

"You always do."

He had no idea what came over him. He had, at that moment, completely lost his mind. He tilted his head toward her, encouraged when she didn't pull away. His breath quickened and a blue spark snapped between them when he brushed his lips against hers, parting them innocently.

With a gasp she leaped away from him, both hands clamped over her mouth, eyes wide with every turgid emotion that boiled in a maelstrom beneath her surface. What he saw there was terror and disbelief. He dropped his head, blew a shaky sigh, and pressed a palm to his forehead.

"I'm sorry, Claire, I shouldn't have… I'm sorry…" he stammered, feeling like an idiot and quite a bit more interested in throwing himself _under_ the train rather than boarding it.

"No, no, it's okay," she lied, still muffling her mouth with her hands. He hoped she wasn't going to barf or something…

A voice blared loudly over the intercom announcing that passengers could begin boarding. The world and its crowd and its noise came crashing back in around them. It was the chance he needed to leave this discomfort behind – maybe, over time, they could both forget it ever happened.

"I have to go," he stated the obvious, conducting a very thorough examination of his feet and the ground, raising his voice to cross the distance that had newly sprung between them. "But I _am_ sorry. For _everything_." He hoped she understood what he was saying. He meant _everything_. "I know sorry doesn't really _cover_ it, but you should still hear it."

A gossamer touch stole his eyes to his elbow where her fingers rested. He summoned the courage to look her in the eye.

"_I know_."

The voice rang the announcement again, as if they _needed_ the reminder, and he felt a tightly wound coil of stress binding between his shoulder blades. Claire suddenly tore her hand away to dig into a small handbag she had dangling at her hip, from which she produced an old-fashioned inkpen. She quickly snatched his right hand and turned the palm to face her, scribbling numbers across its surface.

"Go," she said, "and don't be a stranger this time."

"I won't," he replied, tucking his hand protectively into his pocket. He started to leave but turned back around to face her, a question burning in his throat.

"… are we friends, Claire?"

She graced him with a smile that contained no hints of sadness or shame as she hugged herself vigorously. She nodded a firm affirmation.

"Yeah, we are."

Happy to have received confirmation that a relationship of some sort did exist between the two of them, that there was indeed a part of her that did belong to him, he returned a warm and genuine smile, nodded once and waved his fingertips, then turned to take his leave. On board, he tossed his duffel in the baggage compartment above his head before he took his seat, smugly satisfied knowing that they were at least on the same _planet_ and, after nearly three hundred and forty years, he _finally_ had Claire Bennett's phone number.

Meanwhile, the object of his affection stood on the platform far longer than she'd anticipated, relishing the sensation caused by the strange buzz between her ears as she watched the train glide down the tracks and out of the station. She ran her tongue over her lips, tasting his scent still lingering there. Her feet were frozen solid where they stood, immobilized by terror. She was in _big trouble_. She was a _married woman_. Married to a man who could never hope to keep her, could never bear children with her, could never grow old with her. And then her mortal enemy had come along and he'd tried… to _kiss_ her. To _love_ her in a way no one else ever could.

She was paralyzed by guilt and shame, and _fear_.

Because she wanted _more_.

**A/N #2: Oh yeah, startin' to heat up NOW! Vol 1 Ch 12 has, for a long time, been my favorite chapter, but this might be a close second.**


	10. 10 Beth

**A/N: Hope everyone had a safe holiday and will have a fabulous and equally safe New Year!!! And, dare I say, I think this story is getting close to its home stretch! I can see a light at the end of the tunnel!!!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**10) Beth**

The Shadow Man awoke to a blistering, suffocating heat, and the sound of two voices conversing in the dark distance.

"Finish strippin' that one, can ya? Gotta piss like a racehorse…"

_Oh hell_. He knew where he was. He sat suddenly bolt upright, startling the mortuary technician who was just about to get her hands on the mildly protective suit covering him. He was in the abattoir where the bodies of the dead Guard were reduced to bare organic compounds used to create the bio-diesel that powered the operations responsible for their manufacture.

"Oh!" the girl gasped. "We thought you were dead!" He most likely _had_ been dead. He had revived after his collar had been removed from his neck. He didn't dare answer her – tell her _anything_ – for fear his voice would sound obviously different from the other clones, rousing her suspicion. He let body language speak for him, tilting his featureless head to the side as if to say, "Well, duh – _obviously_ I'm quite alive…"

"You must be a healer," she realized, stepping out of his way while he stood, timidly placing his weight on still-wobbly legs. He spied a shelf across the room stocked with numbered boxes – one of the boxes had a number that matched the one printed on a band circling his right arm. He reached it after taking a few more confident strides and pulled it down. It contained all the equipment he'd carried on his person, including the neural tap reader he'd used as a hand-held scanner and his utility belt – the one that still had Sylar's fingerprints melted onto its surface. Collecting his property, he nodded once to the technician before making his way from the building. His hunt had to continue _immediately_. His '_rescuers_' had known exactly what to do with _him_, but what had they done with Sylar? In order to find out he would need maps… lots of maps… and some _privacy_.

One of the benefits of being a member of the Black Guard was the lack of a credit account. Because their lifespans were relatively short, and because the cost of their manufacture was so easily recycled, they were completely subsidized by Federal Intelligence, included in their annual budget. As a result, the Shadow Man never had to pay for transport and always had a guaranteed living space. The crematory was adjacent to a small medical facility, devoted solely to the needs of the Black Guard, whose emergency entrance shared access with a large garage housing vehicles of all kinds. Above that rose the giant tower that provided them their accommodations. He made a short stop at his dormitory on the ninety-eighth floor to grab an old familiar data chip. He knew he should've stayed there longer in order to further promote the façade of his normalcy, but he had been gone a long time and there was somewhere else he would rather have been.

Leaving the garage in a small black sedan he drove directly through the streets of Itasca to the Federal Intelligence building where he parked the car (since its movements, like the rest of their vehicles, were monitored closely according to public mandate) and walked the remaining twelve blocks to his destination. He performed a special, coded knock on her door, one they'd agreed to years before. It swung slowly open to grant him the long overdue sight of her expressive green eyes and long dark hair, and the slim figure whose molecules she had complete control over – only aging if she _told_ them to. For a moment she held her stance, very still and mistrustful – she could stand to lose a lot if she accidentally let in the wrong black suit.

"Olivia," he let the breath pass from his lips, pleading with her to let him in and not leave him standing outside, conspicuous. She stole quick glances down both directions of the street, checking for nosey traffic before she stepped aside to allow him passage into her home.

He'd barely dropped the masking mechanism before her open hand slapped across his newly exposed face with a loud '_clap_'.

"Where the _fuck_ have you been?!?" she cried, tears soaking her eyelashes. "Do you have any idea how long you were gone?!? A fucking _lifetime_, no word, no nothing!!! How _dare_ you show up here now!!! I thought you were _dead_!!! _I_ could've been dead! I could've been captured, enslaved, _murdered_ – who fucking _knows_ what!!! I could've met someone, gotten married, had _babies_, forgotten all about y-"

Her tirade ended when he grabbed her face and pressed his mouth against her hot, plump lips for the first time in nine years. She returned his kiss with angry fire, tugging at the suit covering his body in a futile attempt to remove it as he pinned her against the wall just inside the doorway. He hadn't even set foot on the carpet yet.

"I'm gonna need some spare clothing," he panted against the smooth skin of her neck when he pulled away to suckle it.

"Not right _now_ you're not…" She wrapped her legs around his waist, twisting her fingers into his dark hair, letting him dry hump her for all of two minutes before they tore urgently down the hall in the direction of the bedroom.

Two hours later, freshly laid and showered, the Shadow Man sat at Olivia Terry's kitchen table, wholly content in a pair of old, worn sweats she kept in a box buried deep in her closet for just such an occasion.

"I _am_ really glad they haven't caught you," he told her tenderly, placing his data chip into her holo-display, carrying on the conversation they'd… _interrupted_ earlier.

"Well, I'm not gonna be able to stay here much longer. I'm supposed to be forty next year, and people are starting to tell me I look really good for my age. Two more rebels have infiltrated the central labs, though – did you know that?" Of course he didn't. Of course she _did_. Still in information technology, she was a big part of the reason rebels were able to procure new identities – she had a direct link to Federal Intelligence databases. She was also untraceable and incredibly difficult to _catch_. That didn't make her any less vulnerable, however, if she chose not to allow her cells to degrade and her body to age. "The rebels could really use a guy like you."

"You know why I don't join them," he muttered, bringing up the first set of maps, flipping through them until he found Pisces, which he figured was a good place to begin renewing his search for his elusive prey. The Shadow Man couldn't possibly sacrifice the future by choosing a side – doing so would put his anonymity at risk. There wasn't another soul in the universe who knew what _he_ knew about Sylar, and if something happened to him… their kind would be doomed.

"Probably the same reason why I shouldn't," Olivia responded, adjusting the tie on her robe while steeping a steaming cup of Earl Grey. She was correct – her capture would affect countless others.

"Rebels? In the _central_ labs???" her words had finally caught up with him.

"Yep."

"That's… that's _great_." It meant he wouldn't have to rely on Sylar's borrowed ability to work on his formula – he would have _help_. He fought viciously against the swell of hope in his chest. He could take nothing for granted while the largest piece of the puzzle was still running around the cosmos, moving further away by the second.

A star chart depicting the Pisces sector of space bloomed in the luminous, ethereal blue of the holo-display. The most widely populated of all the sectors, it boasted three colonized worlds, only serving to further complicate his efforts. He raised the laser pointer he'd retrieved from his utility belt and beckoned for quiet while he narrowed his eyes in concentration.

He hovered the red dot to blaze over each planet in slow succession until his senses confirmed the map he needed was for the planet on which he currently stood – the predominant seat of the Pisces sector (and arguably most of charted space), affectionately named '_Avalon'_ by its inhabitants. With a couple easy hand gestures he was able to condense his output down to an atlas of the globe. His pointer landed heavily and assuredly on the city of Itasca.

"Oh my god he's still _here_…" Olivia knew he was only talking to himself – she reserved her response to allow him his continued focus. The Shadow Man didn't know why he was so surprised. They both couldn't have been there more than a day or two, maybe three – how far could he have gotten with no money and no… I.D.

But he _did_ have I.D., didn't he? He'd _checked_.

He zoomed in his field of view further still, showing him a street map of the city. He seemed to drag the laser everywhere, until…

"Shit!" he cried. This time Olivia reflexively joined him by his side. He turned to her suddenly, pleading. "Liv, honey, I need to know if you can get me some information out of your databases."

"Of course," she replied, setting her tea cup where it couldn't be knocked over before placing her hand on top of the console feeding output to the display. Her fingertips took on a translucent appearance as they sunk through the casing, accessing circuitry and issuing demands. "What would you like to know?"

"I need to know anything you can tell me about an agent named Tom Krtek."

His attention was snared when the windows containing his maps were minimized. In their place appeared a rather intimidating looking command line which became populated with complicated lines of script, joining a series of tables in order to select variables based on the parameters of the name he'd given her. After a short processing period, the data he'd requested leapt to the screen, telling him exactly what he needed to know.

"Fuck! It's true – he's at the train station. He's being deployed to the field! I have to go, before I lose him!"

He jumped out of the chair, tearing off his clothing as he ran down the hall toward the bedroom where he'd left his characteristic black suit. Olivia slumped in disappointment, cupping both hands around her warm cup while she leaned against the archway separating the kitchen from the living room. She crossed her ankles while she waited for him to emerge. He jogged back into the living room, pausing only to latch his belt around his waist and check to make sure he hadn't lost the car keys.

"You gonna make it a cool decade before I see you next?" He paused and looked up at the sound of her voice. "Because, really, I'd kinda like the opportunity to move on."

He approached her, slow with sentimentality, and lifted a hand to caress her cheek sweetly.

"I _will_ be back soon. This is all going to end. The world's gonna change, Liv. I _have_ to do this. And there's gonna come a time when I'm gonna _need_ you."

They both knew she'd be there, even decades later. He pressed one last loving kiss to her lips before he activated his masking device and left her home.

Twenty-three minutes later he'd barely cut the ignition of the car in a visitor parking space before he sprinted from the garage into the station, ripping the neural tap reader from his belt. His footsteps still managed to echo in the busy, crowded halls. He slowed to a brisk, excited walk as he struggled to control his breathing and reconstruct his composure. The scanner had picked up a reading in a restroom twenty meters away.

"Ten years my ass," he muttered to himself as he allowed the frequency to guide him…

Straight to the J-shaped bend in the pipework snaking underneath the middle sink.

_He'd removed the tag_. And he was a shapeshifter – he could be anyone, _anywhere_.

"…son of a bitch…" he whispered, shaking with rage.

The three other occupants who had been sharing the facility were then seen by onlookers to be passing through the exit – rushed and nervous – having bore witness to the very unusual sight of a Black Guard collapsing to his knees in the middle of the train station mens' room, furiously weeping.

~*~*~

*** _Sixty years later_ ***

Claire had spent a lot of time getting used to things. One of the things, however, that was _not_ included was the dizzy sensation she always felt immediately after the ship's tesseract engines shut down and forward propulsion became the responsibility of auxiliary power. Swallowing against the slight wave of nausea, she was anxious to get to her feet and roam in the general direction of an observation deck, and perhaps a cup of tea. She was in the Leo sector again for the first time in a long time, having spent her last '_life_' in the Cancer sector helping to re-secure and rebuild the disbanded rebel safehouse, whose evacuation – through Gabriel – she'd been able to ensure. She knew that the coordinates to which they'd jumped were fortunate enough to be graced by the alien and hauntingly beautiful spectacle that was the Dragonbreath nebula, one of her favorite nighttime visitors during the times she'd spent previously there.

The mess hall resembled the glittery, commercialized dining areas of old ocean-going cruise ships: massive buffets catered to the tastes of a varied and eclectic populace, and a wide platform of expensive cloth-covered tables was framed by a giant viewport yawing off into space. Claire gently set her steaming cup onto a table situated close to the cool plexi-cement then dipped into a chair and tucked her legs under the tablecloth. She cherished these precious quiet moments alone – times of much needed reflection, when she could pretend she _wasn't_ being sent to perform dangerous work in a treacherous world, when she could pretend she really _was_ on a cruise. She blew steam from the surface of the liquid not in an attempt to cool its surface temperature, but to waft its moist warmth across her cheeks and eyelashes. A sigh left her lips as she gazed at the nebula, its fiery red and orange glow piercing easily through the attempts of the oppressive surrounding blackness to extinguish its flame. She wished space luck, having watched it lose to the nebula many nights before over the past century, very much like a dragon laying waste to a black knight, mocking it for its feeble endeavor.

Her peaceful reverie was broken by a short trill from her fet. Someone had logged onto her messaging client, presumably a rebel handler prepared to issue coded orders before the ship reached port and pulled in to dock. While slightly dismayed, she couldn't help a wizened smile – at least her eternity wasn't dull. Aside from obviously wishing the world were completely different, she had to admit that at least she was happy to be busy with something that fulfilled her. She removed the persistent device from her back pocket and gave it her attention, drilling down messaging on the display. Four words blinked before dimming and disappearing: _Osiris has logged in_.

Her smile softened into something more tender as she sucked her bottom lip and let her head rest on a supporting palm. While he _was _a rebel, Gabriel certainly wasn't her handler and was a much more welcome sight. She watched as the fet logged her in, absentmindedly running her thumb over his chat moniker.

She'd poked fun at him for the name once.

'_The Egyptian God of Death…? Isn't that kinda old fashioned for you? When's the last time you took someone's head off?_'

'_Claire, Claire, Claire, don't you read? Please, allow me. He was also known as He Who is Permanently Benign and Youthful, which I thought was fitting, as well as the Lord of Silence._'

He'd become uncharacteristically quiet after that, which screamed to her that there was something more, something he wasn't saying.

'…_and???_'

'… _and…_' He paused before bravely continuing. '_The Lord of Love._'

She didn't make fun of him after that. Well, not for the _name_, and certainly not to remind him Osiris married his sister. She did, however, find it strangely peculiar how, after having landed himself the kind of job that forced him into regular social interaction, he'd suddenly become obsessively fascinated with dirty jokes. In a way, it was weirdly sweet – her ugly duckling was becoming a swan.

"Morning," the word popped into existence.

Having lost all concept of time, adrift in a sea of space, the word looked foreign to her, although she had to concede it was likely morning for _him_.

"Morning, sunshine. What r u doing?"

"Getting coffee."

"How many shots, Captain Caffeine?"

There was a small pause.

"4."

"Wow. Late night, stud?"

"Wtvr. Some people like coffee. Got a new one 4 u - it's great. Rdy?"

"Shoot, Tex."

She waited for what seemed like forever while his nimble thumbs pounded out the lengthy message.

"Couple just got married. On their honeymoon the wife tells the husband, 'plz be gentle, I'm still a virgin.' Husband replies, 'how is this possible – u've been married 3 times before!' Wife responds, '1st husband was a gynecologist, all he wanted to do was look at it, 2nd husband was a psychiatrist, all he wanted to do was talk about it, 3rd husband was a stamp collector, all he wanted to do was... Holy shit I miss him!'"

Her sudden bark of laughter echoed in the nearly vacant expanse – she clapped a hand to her mouth as a newly seated couple turned away from their filled plates, curious about her commotion.

She missed him. The last time she'd seen him he'd just returned from somewhere in space and was spending the night in Carver City before returning to Itasca – he'd stopped at the Go-Getter thirty minutes before closing for a late-night dinner. He'd been the only patron (aside from two regulars wholly occupied at the bar drunkenly playing a game of holo-golf), and she the only remaining wait staff for the night. She'd made sure his BLT had at least one extra slice of tomato, knowing how he loved the "T" in a "BLT" the best, and she'd piled him on an extra scoop of their special curly fries when the cook hadn't been looking. Gabe looked slimmer than usual, and that pesky maternal… _thing_ surged up to control her actions yet again. She'd seated him outside any prying line of sight, and joined him for a few minutes before she moved off to finish her shift.

She talked and talked while he quietly ate, a precious rare dimple developing at the corner of his smile, decorating eyes that were still intensely wolfish and gleaming. She didn't allow him a word edgewise, forcing his mouth to be busy instead with much needed food. She practiced her code, droning on and on about a fantastically lethal new gun she'd had the good fortune to procure, while sounding to any imagined bystander as if she were prattling his ears off about curtains for her living room. She could tell by the way he'd occasionally lifted an eyebrow that _they_ were on the same page. In the end, he'd just laughed at her, dragging a napkin across his lower face, shaking his head.

"So you got your periwinkle blue window treatment," he'd finally replied, pushing the empty plate away an inch or so, neatly folding the napkin across its face. He put his elbows on the table and pressed his clasped fingers against his lips, sizing her up with a stare that still managed to rankle her unease. She didn't think there'd ever come a day when Sylar wouldn't know just how to rub every nerve she had. "That's not _all_ that's new."

She met his gaze with expressionless silence. She'd known he'd see through the shadows under her eyes. The passage of time had stripped them bare to each other.

Eventually breaking the eye contact, she revealed herself with a whisper while nervously fidgeting with the condiments.

"… lost another baby."

With a sudden movement he pushed his chair away from the table and crossed his arms over his chest. He narrowed his eyebrows and stared laser beams into the carpet, heaving a large sigh.

"You don't have to worry about _me_, I'm _fine_… it was just… something that _happened_, I knew it'd just -"

She was interrupted by the sound of Jason's voice – he'd shown up early, picking up his paycheck and hanging out with friends before he drove his wife home. Gabriel'd stood abruptly, sensing it was time to make his exit. With an unusual swing of mood, he'd held his hand out to her. She'd taken it, and allowed him to bring her to her feet while warming her fingers. Perhaps she'd let it linger on hers a little longer than was prudent. He slowly slipped his fingers from her grasp to place both hands on her shoulders. Around his left arm she could see Jason's golden face silently pop around the wall that concealed them from view.

"I just," Gabe'd said, "… just take care of yourself, okay? Just be happy."

It had been the first time Jason'd questioned the faith he'd had in his wife, first of many to come after a few more unsuccessful pregnancies. It wasn't long thereafter he and she had relocated to do some work in the Aries sector, investigating ground being broken for the construction of new mod camps. From there she'd moved on for a rather prolonged stay in the Cancer sector.

That night, however, was also the origin of Gabriel's new habit of messaging her jokes to make her smile. After how much he'd taken from the world, how could she deny him this outlet of giving back? The couple across the way, who appeared to be enjoying tacos together, returned her smile, enjoying the sudden outburst of good humor in an otherwise bleak and vastly empty universe.

"Omg ur terrible," she messaged him back, sure to include a smiley face so he knew his efforts were successful. The changes he'd made in himself deserved some sort of reward, and the behavior (however occasionally lascivious, but he _was_ male), deserved to be encouraged.

"Do u still plan on seafood for dinner?" It was code. '_Are you still in Cancer?_' "I'd like to bring white wine." '_I'd like to visit you._'

"No, someone is allergic, having Chinese instead." '_I've been sent to Leo._'

"And here I am, out of red." '_That's a shame._' "Perhaps I'll settle for a blush." The last part wasn't code, just his wicked sense of humor. Her cheeks were still rosy with the thoughts of a stamp collector's favorite sexual habits.

"Blush is always a good choice."

Her tea had become cool enough to drain, so she let its fragrant flavor fill her cheeks and warm her belly appreciatively. Depositing her cup on a conveyer belt that took dirty dishes away to be cleaned, she returned to her quarters to gather her belongings and deposit her luggage with baggage handlers on her deck. Two hours later, as she made her descent to the disembarkation platform, on her way to claim her things, her head snapped around after a frightening sight had entered her periphery, causing her to jump.

Behind her, to the right, across the packed and constantly shifting hangar bay, milled a rather large contingent of shadow people. This job was already turning out to be harder than she thought it would be. Fortunately, she'd gotten in a few hours of target practice before she left. And she no longer had anyone to go home to.

The universe was hers again, and aside from dirty jokes and pretty nebulas and big guns… it kinda sucked.

~*~*~

*** _several weeks later_ ***

The people in the Cancer office were tolerable. An all-male crowd, which he found unusual, but more cerebral than he expected – not so heavily interested in drinking beer and frothing over lame sports (although Gabriel begrudgingly had to admit he enjoyed hockey). Some of the dudes had even read a _book_. Somehow he'd managed to get himself involved in a thoroughly satisfying discussion of Homer's Odyssey and the parallels F.I. agents sometimes experienced while conducting their work (although he saw the conversation from a completely different perspective, it didn't mean it wasn't still refreshing). He was also secretly thrilled to discover that his new partner, Mike, not only enjoyed chess, but was a competent opponent. Because he was happy for the regular opportunity to play, he even let Mike win a game once in a while, to keep him coming back like a kitten who would otherwise eventually grow bored with a feather-toy if he couldn't occasionally catch it.

And then… there was the coffee shop down the street.

It was Monday morning, and he didn't mind. His previous '_life_' had been spent, mostly, in the Sagittarius sector, investigating the remains of the destroyed colony with a cadre of technicians, checking radiation and toxicity levels and calculating half-lives. His real job was to feed F.I. misinformation, and he'd admittedly taken a few rather liberal chances resulting in his need to '_die_' and start a new '_life_'. Sylar, unfortunately, was happiest when life was dangerously exciting… especially when that meant sabotaging every effort to repair the damaged bio-dome. Fewer colonies typically resulted in fewer mod camps.

He'd spent his time on Sagittarius shapeshifted into the appearance of his old victim Nathan Petrelli – knowing he'd need to spend an undetermined amount of time behind a different face, he decided on one in which he'd already had some lengthy experience. The effort had been exhausting, however, so – aware that this new generation of F.I agent didn't really know or remember some old guy named Tom Krtek – he had been anxious to return to his real face. He'd actually become paranoid that he wouldn't be physically capable of returning to it.

Feeling more… _whole_ again, he slipped easily into old routines. Having awakened early for a brisk morning jog, he ducked into the coffee shop for an espresso and some peace while he sipped and perused his morning news feeds on his fet. Checking his e-mail, he found, occupying space in his inbox, the newest joke circulating the office – he forwarded it to Claire, a chuckle drawing lines at the corners of his eyes. It was then that he felt the heat of someone's stare warming the side of his face.

Without turning his head and drawing attention to the fact that he was aware someone was watching him, he let his eyes wander as far as they could go. He'd caught the sight of a small, red-headed barista who, upon eye contact, hid her sea-foam colored pools behind strawberry eyelashes and demurely ducked her charmingly freckled button nose away from him to continue wiping a counter behind her with a shy smile.

Was… was she…? Did she just…? Uhh… flirting…? Speak…? Now – or…

Feeling a little like a dipshit moron who was a complete idiot with girls, he decided it was a safer bet to flip closed his fet after choosing his return trip's soundtrack, stuff his earbuds hastily into place, and sprint like a madman out the door to jog home, get showered, and head into the office.

"See you tomorrow," he heard a timid voice call from somewhere in the cowardly trail of dust he left behind. He was going to have to find a new coffee shop.

Which was why he wasn't surprised when, the next day, his traitorous feet led him back. He hated that his wicked subconscious enjoyed the attention. He didn't know who to blame, himself or Sylar. Maybe it was someone new. He hoped it wasn't someone new. _One_ extra personality was more than he'd ever wanted to end up explaining to someone, let alone the abilities… his longevity… his _past_… he should really start making coffee at _home_.

Out of pure reflex and for reasons he couldn't understand, he wiped the sweat from his brow and tucked his nose under the collar of his shirt, inspecting for offensive odor. Sweet Jesus, if he _was_ going to develop a new personality, couldn't it at least be over _fifteen_?!? Fuck… Squaring his shoulders, deciding to be a _perfectly grown, nearly four hundred year old man_ about the situation, he draped his earbuds around his neck and stepped inside.

It was too much to hope for that she wouldn't work two days in a row. _Stupid, she_ did _say 'see you tomorrow…'_ Her eyes widened at the sight of him, and not in the way he was ordinarily accustomed, with the pleading and the screaming. Similar, sure, but not really the same. She whipped around, away from him, as he approached the counter, biting down on a sudden predatory urge to pin her frail form across the bar and pull her head, by the hair, back enough to expose her thumping, faintly floral-scented pulse. He was not happy about the way his heart was smacking against the inside of his rib cage. Not happy about it _at_ _all_. He couldn't wipe the frown from his face – he prayed it made him look sexy.

She twisted back around to face him, sucking her lip and blinking rapidly while trying to concoct simple yet inoffensive words. He found himself in very much the same position, especially when it came to the '_inoffensive_' part. They were locked in an almost weird kind of stalemate where one wrong move would either cause her grievous injury or cause him to flee the store, shrieking like a little girl who'd just seen a spider. It was then that he noticed what she held in her hands as she pushed it between them, like an offering.

"Four shots," she muttered with feminine aplomb, "and four packets of sugar. Just how you like it – dark and sweet."

A surprised and bitter blonde had told him the same thing once… He pushed the unattainable _married_ woman from his mind.

"Thank you," he replied, finding his voice and pausing to read her nametag, "_Beth_."

Her smile lit her eyes at the sound of her name passing from his lips. Relinquishing the warm cup to him, she clasped her hands on the counter in satisfaction. He lifted an eyebrow and gifted her a nervous half-smile as he moved off to allow the customer behind him his turn. Taking a seat he watched her instead of flipping open his fet. She did _not_ have a cup waiting for the next person in line. Or the person after _that_.

It had been just for _him_. He had been… _special_.

Holy hell… he was in trouble.

~*~*~

Beth hadn't worked for a couple days, and when she did she usually worked a morning shift, so when Mike had asked him to join him after work at the '_coffee shop down the street_' to go over some last minute details on a report they were writing up for their investigation into renewed rebel activity in the Cancer sector, he felt confident in agreeing to do so. Because Mike had to call his wife, and was typically slow as molasses anyway, Gabriel (known to Mike as '_Jonathan Kendrick_') naturally arrived first.

And there she was.

She drew a surprised breath when she saw him, not just because she was catching him outside of his normal routine (which unnerved him greatly), but also because it was the only time she'd ever seen him in something other than grey jogging fatigues. Seen through her eyes, he was a tall, clean, sharp figure in smartly tailored black pants, a crisply starched electric blue shirt, and a long, past-the-knee, high-collared black overcoat with a soft, cream-colored woolen scarf that Mike's wife had knitted him for Christmas, wound loosely around his closely shaven neck. And he smelled _terrific_. She was stunned.

The older lady working behind the counter with her eyed the scene knowingly, and elbowed Beth in the ribs. An embarrassed flush bloomed across her cheeks.

"There's your superman," the comment was whispered between the two of them.

Beth threw her hands out in front of her, beckoning for him to wait.

"It'll just take me a couple seconds, I wasn't expecting you."

"Beth," her name arrested her again, "… maybe just a cup of tea. Coffee this late'll just -"

"Oh yeah, I wouldn't wanna keep you up all night," she laughed before her eyes widened with horror, realizing what she'd just said. She whirled away, skin matching her red hair, making haste with the hot water like a wet nurse at a delivery. "What kind of tea? Got a nice jasmine, Earl Grey, orange spice, this little berry medley that's _really_ good, and we've got a new one – Cinnamon Plum – which everyone says is just awesome but I haven't had the chance to try it yet…"

"Jasmine's great."

"You like it sweet, too?" she asked over her left shoulder, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Absolutely," he returned with a devilish grin.

With both hands she carefully set the large, bowl-shaped mug on the counter between them, and tilted her head toward one shoulder while she dipped the teabag into the sweetened water repeatedly.

"Want a little honey?" She lifted her eyes to him and nibbled on her lip. The fragrant steam coated his face, and all he could do was dumbly nod. She retrieved a little pot from under the counter and began to lovingly drizzle spirals that immediately suffused into the liquid.

"So, what's your name?" she asked, replacing the pot to its previous hiding place. He opened his mouth but could make no sound, his smile dropping from his face.

He felt like he'd been slapped. This girl didn't have a heartthrob crush on _Gabriel_…

"Jonathan," he made his decision, protecting his anonymity as he plunged his eyes to the floor.

"What, you don't like your name?"

This girl would never know _Gabriel_. Would never love him.

"Can't stand it."

Which was odd, because '_Gabriel_' had always been the name he couldn't stand… and now he would've given anything to be able to claim it. But who was he kidding? How could she ever really _know_ him? _Who could_? Assuming _anyone_ could get past the fact that he _wasn't_ a baseline human, but was hunted for being naturally born with an incredible ability, oh _and_ he was a _reformed serial killer_ by the way… he'd just end up living long enough to watch such a rare creature eventually leave his life forever.

"Well, I think it's nice," she whispered conspiratorially as she leaned into him, pushing the mug into his limp, forgotten fingertips. "This one's on the house, _Jonathan_."

"Hey, buddy!" He felt a strong clap on his shoulder – Mike had arrived. It was time to get to work. He'd never been so glad.

~*~*~

Gabe hadn't given his e-mail a second thought, he'd been so occupied that afternoon re-working another report headed toward the Central Office, fudging this, falsifying that. He was cranky – reports made him want to slit his wrists (and _keep_ 'em slit). He wanted to be out in the field, causing trouble, dodging landmines, getting shot at – double-agent spy stuff… just like the old days. He and Mike were to spend the last three days of the week, however, out on the frontier edges of the dome, holed up in the mountains with nothing but camping gear to keep them alive. It was rumored that a concentration of liberated mods was hiding up there, waiting for transport to sneak in and safely snag them. Mike didn't know it yet, but he was going to suffer an injury that would result in him being air-lifted to receive medical attention, leaving Gabe to carry out the mission alone (which meant securing an escape route for a cold and starving throng of bodies and their rebel protectorate). In a way he almost felt bad, he liked Mike. Perhaps the terrain would be steep enough he could get away with nothing more than a telekinetically sprained ankle…

Finished with his mundane task, he flipped open his fet with the intention of taking another glance at the list of supplies he'd need for his long camping weekend in the mountains. What popped up first was a message alert. It was a reminder that a co-worker, Paul, was getting married in three weeks and that he was invited. Foolishly he'd accepted the invitation, having not received a whole lot of them in his life, just to see what the experience felt like. It was overrated.

"You should ask her," his nosy partner blurted, reading over his shoulder and startling him. Gabriel snapped his fet shut a little harder than he'd meant to. One of these days he was really going to explain to these people just how well he knew what a human brain looked like with the skull sawed off. He spun around in his chair, instead, and presented Mike with his best blank expression.

"Coffee shop girl."

"Beth…?"

"Yeah, Beth! You should ask her to go with you to Paul's wedding. Chicks love going to weddings."

"No, they don't." Gabe didn't know a whole lot about women, but he was pretty damned sure women didn't like _going_ to weddings. They liked _planning_ them. The two were _not_ the same.

"Dude. _Cake_." That was supposed to settle the issue.

Gabe knew what Mike wanted – a wingman. Otherwise he was just going to be a coat hanger and a purse holder for his wife. He wasn't going to let him off the hook. So, later that afternoon as he stepped into the coffee shop acutely aware of how badly his actions were going to screw up his life, he gulped down a little anxiety and approached the counter.

"Hey you," she smiled and her face brightened, but drooped again almost immediately. "I'm all out of jasmine today…"

"That's okay," he said, drawing a circle on the countertop, "that's not why I'm here. What time do you get off?"

Her glossed lips parted and her face made it very plain that she couldn't believe her how awesome her day was going. Pushing her hip to the side, she crossed an ankle behind the other and let her foot pivot daintily back and forth on the toe.

"Six."

"Long day," he returned, forgetting that an hour here was shorter than what he was accustomed to.

"Yeah, sometimes, but it pays the bills and works with my practice schedule."

"Practice…?"

She smiled excitedly, thrilled to be able to share this part of her with him, like she'd been waiting a long time for him to come along. He tried hard not to enjoy the sensation.

"Yes, I play -"

She was halted by the insistence of the door chime, admitting a group of ladies who made their way to the counter to peek around Gabriel, having a look at the muffins, breads, and scones. He sidestepped graciously out of their way.

"Do you know where Hartnell Park is?" Beth asked while her new customers were still conversing amongst themselves, pointing at the display case, making their decisions.

"Yeah."

"Meet me there at seven."

"Okay." He let a final look settle between them before he turned and left on feet that felt oddly unaffected by gravity.

~*~*~

It was getting rather dark at Hartnell Park at 7:12pm – he thought she was pretty brave to be meeting a nearly perfect stranger under circumstances like this. Of course, it _had_ been her idea – she was likely to show up armed. He waited on a bench facing the main thoroughfare that led into the park, which then bridged over a lazy river and was framed by the city skyline glittering behind. Old fashioned streetlamps kicked on, their solar battery cells prepared to drain away for the evening, casting a golden glow across the lawn and causing grey shadows to dip down over the jogging trails. The air was slightly chill and damp, but not uncomfortable. The mellow lullaby of waking night birds was interrupted by the motor of an approaching scooter, which pulled up a few paces away. She gracefully dismounted and pulled her helmet from her head, allowing her ginger tresses the freedom to tumble to her shoulders. She picked up an oblong case by its handle from the cargo area of her vehicle before marching over to meet him. He stood as she grew near.

"I know it's dark out," he said to fill the space, not knowing really _what_ to say, "I'll understand if you want to go somewhere else."

"Phew," she sighed, collapsing on the bench beside him before he had the chance to sit back down. "I'm so tired, I just wanna sit."

"Of course." He smoothed his pants and took his seat. She already had the case in her lap and was undoing the clasps. Part of him hoped it wasn't a really big gun. But part of him hoped it _was_… He had a thing for chicks with guns.

"I didn't get to finish earlier," she said, lifting the lid carefully, "but I play the violin." She lifted the instrument and the bow before she laid the case to the side, on the pavement under the bench tucked protectively next to her feet. "I'm with the Cancerian Pan-Colonial Symphony, which has a pretty wicked schedule. My goal is to get a few more years experience under my belt before auditioning for the Regents Presidential Symphony Orchestra, but that's really kind of a dream. I figure if I can't make it, I'll try teaching music…" She plucked at the strings a little, obviously wanting to play for him. "What about you? What brings you here to Ashton, the Diamond of the Cancer Sector?"

"I'm an agent for Federal Intelligence," he didn't have any problem telling her – it really summed everything up.

"Oh, wow. No wonder you're always dressed so nice."

"My partner says I'm gay," he replied – _oh_ the things he put up with for a solid chess match.

"_Are_ you gay?" she asked, teasing him. Ordinarily, Sylar utterly flat _despised_ being teased – sometimes bad enough that even the presence of round, perky breasts couldn't mollify him. This was _not_ one of those times. He was growing soft in his age.

"No, I'm not. So… you didn't get that thing out just to put it away, did you?"

"Would you like me to play for you?"

He just smiled expectantly. She nodded once and turned to face him, lifting the instrument to her shoulder and dipping her jaw to the chin rest. She brought her bow to the strings. The instant she drew her first chord, a man who had been walking his dog on the grassy knoll behind them brought his companion to his side, calming it, and sunk to the ground to have a listen. A couple strolling down a nearby trail stopped and stood, hands clasped. They all had an appreciation for her music that was completely different from Gabriel's perspective on it.

He watched her fingers. He studied which strings she placed them on, and at what position on the neck, and paid attention to which corresponding string or groups of strings were stroked by the fibrous surface of her bow. He analyzed the length of time it took for her to draw her bow depending on what sound she wished to elicit. The mathematics in the poetry of her motion formulated a pure consonance of notes that spread goosebumps across his arms. There was more than just artistry in her craft – there was a complex logic with systematic rules that held him entranced as he watched it work… and he _learned_ it. He had been so enamored to _watch_ her play that he couldn't have told her anything about the song she actually _played_. Which was unfortunate.

"I wrote that," she breathed, flushed as she lowered the violin to her lap. Instead of meeting his appraising eyes, she reached for her case, busying herself. "For _you_…" he thought he might've heard her say.

"For…?"

"It's just that…" She sighed as she snapped the lid shut and finally turned to him. "All of a sudden you show up, out of nowhere, and then you show up every _day_. And you just looked so _sad_, all the time. Like someone or something hurt you. Or you were all _alone_ or something. The last time I was hurt and alone, I came _here_. I met Penny, the gal who runs the shop, and she gave me a chance and now my bills are paid and I'm following my dreams." She leaned her head back, taking in the sight of the stars and two of the three lavender moons that had just risen for the evening. A puff of fog left her lips. "Sometimes I think this planet is magic – it does things for people. And I wonder if I could be part of that… for _you_. If I could make you smile."

This was a slippery slope.

"…but you don't really even _know_ me…"

She closed her eyes and smiled before sizing him up with a clever smirk.

"Then why meet me here, right? I know you have a sweet tooth, I know you like nice things by how you look, I know you take care of yourself, and now I know what you do for a living. Maybe I'd like to know _more_ – maybe that's the whole _point_."

Sure – for _her_. But what was the point for him? Was this something that would be appropriate for his cover as '_Jonathan Kendrick_' – make him seem more _real_ – or was this something _Gabriel_ needed? Would he ever really be able to come clean to this girl about who he really was? If not, was he going to be able to live a lie? And who was he lying _to_ – her, or _himself_?

He painted a smile over his face to mask his discomfort, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "First of all, you're really talented. You play beautifully, you'll go far. Second of all," he paused out of inexperience, "I met you here tonight because… a co-worker is getting married in three weeks and I said I'd go but…"

"… you don't wanna go _alone_."

"…right." God he felt pathetic. Sylar was threatening to do something wholly inappropriate just to break the tension. "I just thought," he continued before he lost the chance, "that maybe we could get to know each other so I wouldn't have to ask a stranger."

She hummed her understanding and nodded. "You see," she smiled, "we want the same thing."

"Yeah. How about food?"

"… food?"

"I'm starving, you?"

"I am."

"I realize this isn't the best place to leave that thing," he gestured to her scooter. "I could meet you somewhere, or pick you up at your house…"

"There's a really good Greek sandwich shop a couple blocks that way, across the river," she replied, pointing. "We could just head over there."

"That sounds fantastic."

It was a partial truth. He loved a good gyro as much as the next person, and he had to admit he had a sudden craving for a soft, warm pita, but he couldn't shake the gravelly feeling in his gut that he was about to make a huge, hideous mistake.

~*~*~

Claire polished down her beloved .45 caliber pistol – the one she lovingly named '_Harley_' because it was as manly as a big fat motorcycle – until she could see her face reflect in the gleaming blue steel. It was heavy enough she had to hold it with both hands, but the action on it was supple, still affording someone with her tiny hands a decent amount of accuracy. The rest had come with lots of practice. A flock of native winged creatures had settled around her, keeping a natural healthy distance but still curious to see if she'd feed them. They were easier on the eyes than the pigeons in her memory which made her a tad more sympathetic to their plight. She ducked into her gun bag to produce a plastic baggie filled with peanut butter cracker sandwiches. She tossed one into the little crowd of clucking flyers and grabbed a couple more to munch on herself. Clearing the crumbs from her lap, she put away her polishing cloth and pulled out her long, cylindrical silencer along with a pair of binoculars.

Her company took to the air at the sound of an approaching motor. Claire used the binoculars to peer over the edge of the rooftop, watching as a long, sleek black car pulled up to the entrance of the hotel several stories below. She was able to confirm the identity of the passenger – he was her guy. She twisted the silencer onto the barrel of her gun then settled in for a calm fifteen-minute wait, after which she placed a heavily encrypted call to her handler. The machine-masked voice on the other end told her the hotel room number she'd need. She tucked her gun into her belt behind her jacket and grabbed her bag, headed for the stairwell down.

When she arrived on the ninety-eighth floor, room #9814, she was surprised not to see anyone standing outside. Perhaps her as-yet-unseen partner in crime had created a diversion while she was on her way down the stairs. Nonetheless, she wasted no time digging into her jacket pocket to retrieve a special key card device – one that fried the sensors inside the locking mechanism, causing it to revert to its failsafe position which was always open. Hearing it click when the green light blinked before her eyes, she brazenly charged through the door.

Once inside, she found three men in suits: two obviously working to secure the room – servicemen – and the last a bald, fat figure standing with his back to her – hands clasped behind him, appreciating the view out of the large, plexi-cement windows.

"Kill the rebel scum," the man muttered dismissively before she'd even had the chance to draw her weapon. Not that she needed the time… The servicemen's bullets pummeled her ineffectually as she smiled and pulled Harley from her belt. The room grew very quiet once their bodies hit the floor.

The hot, smoking steel still stretched out before her, she took two challenging steps forward as her victim turned to face her, surprised to see her quite alive and that things hadn't exactly gone as he'd planned. He was very, very afraid.

"You're the man who authorized the further augmentation of the modular injection formula for _more_ medical experimentation, here in this colony," she hissed through gritted teeth. "Are you aware that those people weren't _lab rats_?" She was seething with anger, trying to keep her gun from shaking and tears from coating her vision. "Are you aware that every single one of those people died?" She paused for emphasis, not to let him answer.

"I -"

"Are you aware of what's about to happen to you?"

She lined up her sights, she squeezed the trigger, and took her shot.

She did her job.

**A/N #2: Claire, Claire, Claire... what are you *doing*??? Holy cow... And who is this BETH CHICK?!?!?! Any bets she is what she appears to be??? Hmmmm.... I have my suspicions.**


	11. 11 Just One Shot

**A/N: Oh. My. Gosh. This is it. This is The Largest, Most Important Chapter in the Story So Far - Vol 1 & Vol 2 Combined - officially. There will be more cute domestic!Sylar for you to enjoy. There will be more Sylaire banter - like the old days - for you to enjoy. There will be fun Sylar/Shadow Man banter for you to enjoy. There will be the glorious return of omgikillu!/Sylar for you to enjoy. There will be much mayhem and excitement! On with the show!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**11) Just One Shot**

*** _four months later_ ***

Gabriel awoke the same way he did every morning they were lucky enough to have off together: in an empty bed, but wrapped snugly in the smell of brewing coffee and the sound of joyous violin music. He smiled, in spite of the fact that sometimes he secretly wished he could wake up to arms that _weren't_ empty, and he pushed the blankets away, slipping his naked body into blue pajama pants and a grey F.I. t-shirt. A few minutes later, bladder empty and teeth brushed (but bed-head left untouched because she liked it – said it made him seem more '_natural_'), he made his way into his living room to kiss his girlfriend's neck – the side not occupied by the chin rest of a gleaming mahogany stringed instrument, currently being vigorously sawed over by a bobbing and weaving bow. Her eyes remained closed, wholly engrossed in the moment, but she acknowledged his affection with a warmly spreading smile. He wandered from there into the kitchen where he intended to fully exploit his own talents – for the _culinary_ arts. He was going to make her the best damned pancakes she'd ever had, and this time (since he obviously wasn't alone) he was _not_ going to flip them perfectly with telekinesis. He was ready to try it – it was time to take off the training wheels. He gulped down a cup of coffee (which was absolutely scrumptious because, well, the girl'd had a lot of practice) and got to work.

So, _this_. _This_ was life. _This_ was that crafty, snickering thing that had managed to tease and elude him for so long… for centuries. This was happiness. This was _love_. Somewhere inside him, Sylar was sprawled out – ankles crossed, hands behind his head, eyelashes brushing his cheeks – in a grassy clearing interrupting a field of red blossoms, smiling ear to ear with a butterfly on his nose and a faithfully ticking 1917 Sylar World War I Field Edition strapped to his wrist – merrily conceding defeat. He had been wrong the _whole time_. Normalcy and the mundane were perfectly _okay_. He loved washing dishes by hand while she dried. He loved picking through his laundry to make sure her bra didn't end up in the dreaded dryer. He loved using measuring cups to make sure he cooked for two. He loved the way she'd let him buy candy when they went to the market together. He loved finding her lost earrings while vacuuming the carpet. He finally loved his desk at the office – because it had an actual _picture frame_ on it, with an actual _picture_ inside. He loved _life_. He… he even put the toilet seat down.

Maybe Beth was right – maybe there was something magical about this planet. His bills were paid, he had a comfortable, modern home with a big kitchen, he had the love of a beautiful girl, and he made a living doing something he enjoyed.

Something Beth knew nothing about. Something _no one_ knew anything about.

He reminded himself he wasn't _really_ living a lie, there was a lot of Gabriel in Jonathan Kendrick. He wasn't _really_ trying to live as someone he wasn't, he just had to keep his job a secret. _Lots_ of people had classified careers they had to keep secret, even from their families, and they still _had_ families…

But they didn't have whole other facets of themselves living inside their heads, unknown to those who loved them. And those people would also ultimately _age_. Beth was eventually going to notice that little piece.

He lost his train of thought when the music stopped and the red-head in question sashayed through the archway separating the kitchen from the living room. She ruffled his already mussed hair on her way to the holo-display on the table. She flipped it on to check out the morning news.

"Wanna see something cool?" he asked her, grabbing her attention.

"I'm looking at him!" she flirted, to which he merely smiled.

"Watch this." He loosened his elbows and wrists, keeping his eye trained with purpose on the circle of batter bubbling thickly in the pan. With a quick snap, the golden pancake flipped a graceful arc through the air to land smack-dab in the center of the hot surface, soft side down. Circus performers couldn't have done a better job. His rapt audience squealed and clapped her hands before leaping up to mush an excited kiss into the fleshy apple of his cheek. She left her arms around his waist as he turned to pour another dollop of batter into the pan, and she rested her head between his shoulder blades.

"… further violence in the Leo sector…" he heard a voice say as he became vaguely cognizant that there was a breaking story on the news in which he might be mildly interested. Beth left his space to dig in the refrigeration unit for some juice, leaving him to let his confection cook a little longer before sliding a spatula underneath it to add it to a growing stack on a nearby plate. He turned to look at the display just in time to see a very familiar blonde whip out a handgun nearly as big as her arm as she ran, and with a vengeful war cry splitting her face in a hateful expression he'd rarely seen her make (as it was usually only for _him_), she lined up her sights and fired just one shot, quickly and effectively dispatching her pursuer. Because it was galactic television, the carnage she unleashed as the man's head presumably exploded was deleted from view by a large blessed blur. He was numb with shock – he couldn't believe what he'd just seen. The spatula left his stunned fingers to crash to the floor. Beth stopped what she was doing, collecting glasses from a cupboard, and pivoted to face him.

"Honey… you okay..?"

He looked like he'd seen a ghost. Suddenly aware of what he was giving way, he bent at the middle to pick up the dropped utensil and made up a quick lie, which buzzed gratingly down his spine as it left his lips.

"I just can't believe they'd show something like that on tv…"

"Aww, you're so sensitive. Here, I'll turn it off."

The display popped out of existence as he crossed the floor to the sink, turning on the water and letting it cascade over the dirty surface of the spatula. Beth set her glasses and the juice on the table before sidling up next to him, encircling his shoulders and kissing his other cheek.

"I'll be right back, gonna put my violin and stuff away."

She left him staring out the window above the sink, wondering what could have happened to his old friend to produce such a change in her... Was it the fact that she couldn't be a mother? Was it that she'd outlived her latest husband? Was it _grief_? What could turn the purest, most forthright creature he'd ever known into a murderer? Lord knows _he'd_ done enough to her without testing her faith in her own convictions… What could possibly make her live such a lie…? Was it simply no more than the passing of time? He almost didn't want to know the answer… doing so might require he face the same questions himself… even though he knew a thing or two about _murderers_. It had been a while since he'd talked to Claire – he thought maybe he should check in on her.

Meanwhile, in the other room while _Jonathan's_ mind was someplace light years away, Beth placed a very private phone call.

~*~*~

"STOP! GO BACK!!!" Olivia Terry's holo-display obeyed the voice command transmitted by the Shadow Man's neural tap. The owner of the display had been sleeping peacefully with her head resting on his lap, stretched out luxuriously on the couch, swaddled in a soft blanket. The sudden commotion roused her.

"Baby, what's going -"

"HOLD!!!"

His pants tugged a little at her hair as he tore his legs from underneath her. He tumbled forward into the middle of the living room floor, crawling toward the display on his knees. One finger reached out and marred the surface, causing the light to flicker and distort for a moment, but not enough to remove from him the slack-jawed gaping shock of recognition.

"What… what thuh…"

That same finger rippled across the frozen face of a very angry blonde girl – arms outstretched and hair whipping around her – firing a very intimidating looking weapon straight into the face of the man chasing at her heels.

"What the holy fuck…"

"What are you – who is that?"

"You're telling me you don't recognize her?!?" He jabbed his finger back into the display. "Olivia – that's my _niece_! She… She's been _dead_… for _centuries_… _Sylar_ killed her…"

"_Peter_," she stated his name plainly, fully awake now, sitting up and crossing her arms over her chest.

"I… I don't understand…"

"You're telling me I'm supposed to remember some girl I barely knew almost four _hundred_ years ago???"

"I…" he couldn't answer her. All he could do was breathe… and stare straight into the eyes of the rigid hologram, a still portrait capturing an image he hadn't seen in forever, thought he'd never see again. "We… we had a _funeral_," he whispered, voice tight with a freshly wounded sense of old grief. "I said _goodbye_… Her mother was never the same again… her _father_… she… she just _left_ us… She was _murdered_ – why would she just _leave_ us…"

Seeing the tears in his eyes, Olivia couldn't sit still. She slid off the couch and crossed the floor to console her lover. With an alarmingly manic change of mood, he gripped her by her shoulders and held her at arms' length, eyes bright with the clarity of a sudden realization. They bore into hers.

"Sylar _didn't_ kill her," he muttered, almost seeming to teeter at the edge of madness, stating the obvious. "He killed _someone_ though – there had been a body, and he had been arrested there. Spent twenty years in prison before he disappeared…"

"You've never been completely alone, you know," Olivia tried to soothe him, running her fingers down the side of his face. "Please don't dismiss me like I haven't -"

"They were in on it together! She'd just lost her husband and her baby… she _wanted_ to die, he gave her what she wanted… only he _didn't_…and oh my god!" He brought a finger in front of her face, waggling it back and forth. "On the space station, back at Earth, just before the _Zephyr_ left – there had been a _woman_! I had seen her – in a hallway, talking on her fet! I think… I think that was her! That was just before Sylar got on that ship – she _had_ to have been helping him! He couldn't have gotten away from me without help! I mean, I woke up _out cold_ on that shuttle…"

"Peter -" She wanted to ask him how he could possibly remember all of this, but then was aware he _did_ have a lot of abilities…

"No, Liv, listen – I've been doing this _all wrong_. I don't _need_ to chase Sylar. All I have to do is find _Claire_. Sylar will come to _her_! And I already know she's in Leo…"

"Peter."

"And she's not a shapeshifter – I should be able to just walk right up to her…"

"_Peter_."

"And she's not an F.I. agent – I've been getting _whiplash_ with as often as they transfer Sylar around…"

"Are you _serious_?!? You're going to use your niece – your _only remaining family_ – as _bait_?!?" She snapped her fingers and grabbed his attention. "Just like that?!?"

"No. No, there's a lot more to it than that. You work for F.I. Central, _you_ know why there's so much going on in the Leo sector, why there's always been bombings and assassinations…"

"Because they've been experimenting on the mod injection formula there, for a long time."

"Right. Trying to make it super resistant to rebel tampering. Liv, the original cure for the Shanti virus, which makes the injection essentially what it _is_, was made with _Claire's blood_."

"But isn't that why you've been chasing Sylar all this time?"

"Yeah, because he's the _only living survivor_ – he was the reason the injection was created in the first place, and he's the only person who still carries that cure in his blood stream, or _was_ until _Claire_ just showed up alive and well… Liv, I _can't_ let F.I. get their hands on her – they'll ruin _everything_!"

Understanding, she nodded.

"It's like this: if I can get Claire, I can get Sylar. And if I can get both of them, F.I. _won't_ have them. With your help we can get access to central labs and try to create a formula that cures every infected mod in the galaxy. _All of them_! We can make the last injection they'll ever need – they can live free of the Feds!"

"We'll always have to fight them Peter…"

"Yeah, but at least this way we'll have a _chance_." He took her hands and squeezed them. "And I would _never_ dismiss you so easily. I would never have made it this far without you." He leaned his forehead toward her for a brief touch, closing his eyes. "I know I've never been alone, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Will you still be with me? When this is all over?" And he truly believed it _would_ be. His faith was infectious.

She tilted her face under his to grace his lips with an adoring kiss. "You _know_ I will. I'll go get your suit out of the wash and punch in your flight details."

~*~*~

The principal colony of the Leo sector had for decades been housed on a planet named after the Earth's original '_bread basket_', Sumeria (a fact which prompted her denizens to commonly refer to themselves jokingly as '_Sumans_'). Because the world had, ever since Claire's first introduction to her native soil, always been key to humanity's galactic agricultural system, she was appropriately named. As a result, she was also famous for her open-air farmers' markets – capable of moving an astounding amount of goods, catering even to the rarest and richest, most acquired tastes. There were some in the more densely populated areas that seemed to carry an almost carnival-style atmosphere to them, bartering more than food staples, organically pastured meats, and exotic spices – these were areas where people sold services, made their living with art and music… or dabbled in drugs and… _exploding_ textiles. The kind Claire's husband – well, late _ex_-husband – had been investigating years before.

Not _nearly_ for the first time in the past few hundred years Claire wished she'd been born with some other ability. Particularly, shapeshifting. She and her compatriots had worked diligently during the previous months to put together a foolproof plan that would enable them to raid a laboratory suspected of performing experiments on mods from a local camp. Their activities had drawn a lot of unfortunate attention, however – including a small army of news reporters and press – and her work wasn't nearly finished. There was still the question of the mod camp itself, which would be an expected next move. There was a certain amount of danger in her job that Claire had come to expect, and then there was a point where she had to say no… or find a way to mitigate the risk. In essence, she'd needed to change her appearance somewhat drastically.

Which was why she was now wandering through a heavily crowded market wearing dangerously tall heels, a straight dress underneath which she'd stuffed a whole rack of hotel towels to give her the appearance of being overweight, and sporting a cute but short little bob cut consisting of very brown, freshly dyed hair. Her unusually wide hips brushed tables as she pushed her way down a narrow aisle, trying to dig her way past leather ladies' hair accessories and hand-made jewelry until she reached a cloth vendor in a shadowy corner of a carefully constructed tent, shading its owner and his small, not to mention _select_, group of patrons from the harsh midday sun… or prying eyes. She entered innocuously enough, perching her large sunglasses on top of her head while she ran her fingers down a lovely bolt of shimmery mauve-colored silk, just inside the entrance.

"I _know_ you're not here looking for something pink…" the vendor growled – he was an obese man sprawled to one side in a nearly flat bean bag chair with a small table at his elbow supporting the weight of an ornately bejeweled hookah pipe. Oddly colored smoke billowed from his lips as he bared his teeth in a sinister, lecherous grin. It was hard to imagine being on the same side with this guy. He had spoken in code: '_You shouldn't be here, you've caused too much trouble._'

"I need to be thorough," Claire replied, boldly dropping the code, feeling a bit brave with Harley's cold length pressing against the small of her back. She was doubly reassured with the additional presence of '_Sandra_' at her ankle. She'd named the smaller, golden pistol after her mother because, due to its diminutive size, it was often underestimated and indeed packed a powerful, masterful punch. It was also a smart weapon, only responding to a user who possessed Claire's unique fingerprints – the gun knew her the way only a mother could. "I'm very wealthy – you can't afford to turn me away."

"Well… in that case, I might have something special for you." He didn't get up, but produced a fet from somewhere she wasn't quick enough to see (and probably didn't want to know). After punching in a few keystrokes with his meaty fingers, a small old woman joined them from outside, carrying a wrapped bundle. She placed it in a sack after taking the money from Claire that she had been instructed to leave with them.

"Renegade…" she heard the man whisper as she turned to make her way out. She turned her eyes over her shoulder, glaring venomously. "That's what you are…" more smoke seeped from between his chesire cat teeth. She didn't appreciate the term one bit. She was just doing her job, and a little bit of bloodshed was going to save countless lives – lives that depended on her. She was their only…

"…hope," she whispered back.

A few paces down the street, having successfully put some distance between herself and her transaction and remained at present currently unscathed, her fet chimed at her. Osiris had logged in.

~*~*~

It was the next morning and Gabriel had, once again, woken up alone, but this time he'd expected to – Beth had to work, and work for her came bitchin'-ass early. Unlike everyone else, he _wasn't_ going to sleep when he was dead so he was content to continue snoring while she showered and kissed his forehead before hurrying out the door. Becoming a creature of habit, however, he eventually rose, did the bathroom thing, laced up his runners, grabbed his fet and earbuds, and allowed his feet to carry his burning lungs to the coffee shop to grab his eagerly waiting espresso and say '_Good morning_' to his blushing girlfriend. Once business had begun to pick up a bit he grabbed a table and flipped open the device attached to his hip, giving the appearance he was perusing feeds and acquainting himself with the rest of the universe. In truth, he immediately logged onto his messaging client.

"Morning," he began when he saw his newly deranged old friend join his conversation.

"Howdy."

His thumbs angrily pounded out, "What the fuck are you doing, have you lost your fucking mind?" but he thought better of the question and quickly erased it. He made a couple more attempts at initiating a coded conversation with her, but couldn't think of anything tactful to say. About the time he remembered this was _Claire_ he was talking to, and tact had never really be a _strong_ point in their relationship, she'd beat him to the punch.

"Did u see the news?"

It was an innocent enough question not to require any code. She could've been referring to anything – only the two of them would know for certain what she was talking about.

"Yes." He wanted to say so much more. "It was frankly disturbing." So he did.

"Ur disturbing," she joked back to him in the same way she had for decades.

"Srsly." He wasn't going to let her change the subject.

"I have to go. L8tr." So she didn't want to deal with him, huh? _Fuckin' wench…_

Feeling more than just a little brushed off, he grit his teeth to keep the snarl off his face, snapped shut his fet with a little more force than was necessary, rushed the counter to give Beth a quick peck on the lips, and jogged out the door to head home. Once showered and dressed, he made his way into the office…

To be immediately called into a meeting with his partner and their field operator. More aggravated violence was expected in the Leo sector, and a missive had been sent to all offices requesting help from any unassigned agents. It looked like Gabriel was going to be paying Claire a little visit whether she wanted it or not, and could expect a posting that would potentially last up to three months in the field. See how she likes _that_!

It wasn't until later that afternoon, as he was packing his bags, that reality set in.

He wasn't an idiot. He was fully aware that he was a human being; while not a complete facsimile of any other he was pretty damned close. He'd known for a long time – since he was roughly fourteen years old – that there were going to be certain biological imperatives that would produce resulting behaviors. Mammals are born programmed to seek mates, and humans are born programmed to seek companionship, hopefully accompanied by intellectual stimulation and a deep and lasting emotional bond. He knew he was looking for love – knew he'd been looking for it for centuries, knew it was his ill-fated search for the shifty substance that had stoked a fire of unquenchable and bloodthirsty fury in him, caused him to make severe mistakes and had ripped countless bitter tears from his swollen heartbroken eyes. He was surrounded by walking, expiring meatbags everywhere who settled for an incomplete and ultimately unhappy or faulty version of love because they would never have the time to wander the universe in the way he had, to eventually find that one perfect place in which they could belong.

And here he'd found her. He was destined to outlive her, but she was in his life anyway. He may never find her again. He had just one shot at this, and he was going to make it count. He'd lived his whole life for this – acceptance, belonging, and perhaps a family. He'd decided, since they were going to experience the longest separation they'd seen since they'd started dating, that he didn't want Beth to miss Jonathan Kendrick. He wanted her to miss _Gabriel_. He needed to know that if she was still going to be here when he got home, it was to throw her arms around a super-powered victim of Dissociative Identity Disorder who may or may not have put behind him a rather unsavory past through years of intense psycho-therapy – _not_ some façade.

He wasn't wrong for wanting to be loved for who he was.

So why was he so terrified…?

Before he could process the realization that he was scared of _loss_, he heard her key jiggle in the door and his stomach leapt into his throat. There was no turning back.

"Honey, I'm home!" she called before stepping into the bedroom. "Oh good, you're already in here," she continued, taking off her shirt before noticing the suitcases that were going to interrupt any activities she'd had planned. "What's going on…?"

"I've got bad news and _more_ bad news."

"You're not gonna make my concert on the nineteenth, are you."

"No, I'm not. _And_, I'm being shipped out to Leo for a little while."

"How long is a little while?"

He didn't know how to answer – part of him didn't want to put it into words. His jaw just dropped and stayed.

"… I _see_. Are you gonna have to… _hurt_ anyone?"

"I don't think so. I'm just there to investigate." Suddenly he was extremely reticent to mention anything about the multitudes of people he'd hurt in his life. Maybe his plan wasn't such a bright one.

"That's good," she answered, "because… I mean, I know the mods are locked up because they can be dangerous and all, but they're still people, right? And I just can't believe _all_ of them are dangerous… and there are still _really_ dangerous baselines running around free… it just seems unfair. I guess I just have this vision of you in my head, and I really hope you aren't that kind of agent…"

His cautious reluctance began to disappear.

"No, no, I'm not that kind of agent. But… there _is_ something I need to talk to you about." He repressed the fleeting thought telling him to remove the suitcase from the bed using telekinesis. He used his hands instead, recognizing the wisdom in working her up to the idea slowly. Once the mattress was clear he sprawled across it and drew her to him. She'd gone pale, sensing they were about to discuss something of monumental importance – the kind of thing that might change them forever, and not necessarily in a good way. She allowed herself to be rigidly molded against him, but her eyes didn't leave his, wide and anticipating. Smoothing a lock of unruly hair behind her ear, he went for it, and let the hammer fall.

"I need you to keep a secret, just between us."

"Of course, baby," she answered, her tawny eyebrows knitting together in concern.

He took a deep breath and reached his hand toward the stargazer lily lying on the dresser, the one he'd picked up for her on the way home in an attempt to sweeten her up. He watched her face as the lily floated a slow trajectory across the room to stop, gripped between his waiting fingertips. He presented the bloom to her with a small flourish under her nose. Only momentarily stunned, the spell broke and she jumped to her knees. For a panicked moment he thought she might flee, but holy divinity shone down upon him and she stayed where she was, hands held out in front of her as if the world were spinning, trying to wrap her head around what she'd just seen.

"You're… you're a _mod_…?!?"

"No," he replied, "I'm actually a natural born, and I'm not going to hurt any mods," he grew very serious. "But there's a lot more than _that_. For starters, my name… it's _not_ Jonathan."

~*~*~

Just as Olivia was about to tap her finger on the '_Submit_' button glowing in the lower right section of her holo-display, confirming the purchase of Peter's flight ticket (using a fictitious account linking back to F.I.'s own databases), the air was split by the sound of his fet, enthusiastically chiming.

"Wait," he called, gesturing to her. The contingent of the Black Guard to which he belonged was being sent with a cadre of F.I. agents, being asked to investigate the recent rebel activities in the Leo sector. Several arrests were anticipated and the likelihood for violence was high. He was to report for '_reprogramming_' immediately. If he didn't move with his squadron instead, he'd be acting suspiciously.

"That was shaving it kinda close," Olivia muttered as she watched Peter rise and check his inventory. "Be careful."

"Don't worry about me, you just be ready. We might have to lie low for a little while before we contact you."

"Of course," she replied as she pushed herself into his arms for a final good luck kiss, one he accepted greedily.

Three days later, adorned in his characteristic black suit, Peter marched in formation off of the transport ship onto a disembarkation platform, pleasantly warm sunshine toasting his shoulders and the sounds of native insects singing in his ears. A large white tent, similar to the ones seen at the circuses of his youth, had been erected outside of town to provide the Black Guard temporary quarters. While he was happy for the mild, balmy weather and the accommodations, he wasn't sure exactly how he was going to get away. During the chaos of trying to get a large crowd of mindless drones organized and settled in, he managed to slip off to a covered outdoor latrine where he flipped open his fet and brought up a city-wide view on his GPS.

Though Claire had been missing from his life for hundreds of years, and there were a lot of faces during that time that had easily slipped from his endlessly eroding memory, hers could never be considered one of them. She was the reason he still took breath into his lungs and she was supposed to be here with him, as a family – and now she would be. He focused on her sunny face, the same one that had looked up to him so long ago and had graced him with the good fortune of being called her friend, and scoured the map for her presence. He found her easily on the far side of town… the side closest to the mod camp.

Exiting the facility, he fell in line with a group of Guards already being dispatched for the first shift of duty standing watch outside the camp. He thought for certain, as he stepped up the rear of a large hoverbus, that he saw a car pass him by carting a passenger who bore a striking resemblance to Sylar. It was incredibly difficult to swallow decades of instinct begging him to leap to the chase, but he stuck to the plan.

Several disappointing hours later, with no sign of Claire, clenching his jaw in response to the abysmal conditions under which the mods in the camp were kept, his squad had been ordered to respond to a call placed by an F.I. agent named Michael Hornsburg, requesting backup on what was to be a very difficult arrest. Angered that his time was cut short, and he was being dragged away when he was _this close_, he vowed that he'd sneak back with a later squadron to continue his vigil. If he'd ever had just one good shot at seeing his ancient and arduous plan finally come to its fruition, he truly felt that this was it.

~*~*~

Belinda couldn't have been more than twenty. While she looked to be approximately the same age as Claire, she carried none of the centuries of wisdom and life experience that Claire had. They shared an umbrella-covered table enjoying sandwiches at a deli on a busy corner, and despite appearances they were polar opposites: Claire took her time with her roast beef, savoring the nuances of the locally ground organic brown mustard accentuated by crisp lettuce and a native vegetable that resembled a Chinese water chestnut – she gave each individual flavor its due because her perpetual existence held no more meaning than exactly that, just a good sandwich; meanwhile Belinda swung her legs under the table, fidgety with anticipation, and gulped down her sparsely dressed turkey and swiss devoting more of her attention to the watch on her wrist, checking it every couple minutes. Claire didn't have much to say, having become a bit apathetic with her speech, more content to observe the world turning around her than to actively participate and pass her judgment on the event. Belinda, on the other hand, couldn't stop bubbling. It was obvious that the girl was simply thrilled to be on a real mission at her age, with someone who knew what the hell she was doing, someone she looked up to. Claire wasn't comfortable being a role model, especially given how much blood was on her hands with this trip, and was glad that her companion was typically in and out before the real feathers started to fly. Jason had been twenty when he'd started running big boy missions too – secretly Claire knew that the bigger the universe got, the more camps were built and the more mods and rebels alike kept falling prey to their capture. They needed all the hands they could get.

"We've got ten minutes," Belinda muttered under her breath. Claire had already been aware. Ten minutes was long enough to watch a flock of flying creatures dance an alien yet colorful sort of aerial ballet across the sky. The shop had really good tea – not as good as her mom's sweet southern special, but enough to awaken a misty bloom of nostalgia. She noisily slurped at the watery dregs in the bottom of her cup. Belinda swung her legs even faster, chewing her nails – for her, ten minutes was a lifetime. Claire would've laughed at that thought if she hadn't been slightly annoyed. Ironically, a _lifetime_ felt more like _ten minutes_.

"Alright," she said when the time was up, "let's go."

The girls picked up their shopping bags, maintaining the guise of two friends spending time away from home someplace warmer and a bit more… pastoral, then crossed the street to their hotel. Once inside they turned on some music and drew some bath water, creating the noises one would normally expect to hear in an occupied hotel room. Amidst the din, standing in the middle of the room, Belinda closed her eyes as she focused on her destination. The eyes that then opened glowed a strange, luminous milky lavender, and her left arm shot out at her side, perfectly parallel to the ground.

"Draw the door…" she whispered to herself, entranced, as her finger began to turn a circle in the air. A crackling violet portal through space opened next to her, starting small and expanding until it was wide enough for Claire to crawl through. Fists drawn white-knuckled against involuntary unease, she took a deep breath, thanked Belinda heartily, and stepped through the door.

When she popped through the other side, she discovered they'd been successful – she'd ended up exactly where she'd wanted to: inside the generator building that operated the force dome over the camp, keeping mods in and, they hoped, rebels _out_. They were wrong. The camp was lined with a thick perimeter of black suits, anticipating the typical rebel mode of offense – bombing the place from the outside. Today, Claire was going to take care of business from the _inside_.

The structure was small, consisting mainly of one hallway leading from a main entrance down to a control room which looked out onto the large generator chamber. On either side in the hallway were restroom facilities and a break room. Claire padded forward on silent feet as she slowly pulled Harley from his normal resting place underneath her light denim jacket. Rigid arms holding the weapon steady, she shouldered open the doors to the restrooms and the break room to find them blessedly vacant. All of her unsuspecting victims would be waiting in the control room. She would walk in, dispose of her opposition, place her bomb, and bring down the dome. She would send her coded signal to Belinda and she'd be home free. She'd leave Leo behind one more time, and try a new life somewhere else… again. Maybe someplace new this time. Maybe she'd go back to Earth.

She should've known it wouldn't be that simple. The very instant she put her hand on the doorknob she felt his breath on her neck. She dropped low to one knee and whipped Harley around, not hesitating to take just one silenced shot. She heard the bullet connect to her target with a wet thud before her eyes truly saw what happened.

"GOD DAMN IT, _Claire_, how many _FUCKING_ times have I got to tell you I _HATE_ that shit!" her assailant hissed as he doubled over his injured shoulder, almost as inaudible as Harley's muffled kick over the sound of the generator's constantly humming turbines.

She would still know that hiss anywhere. She couldn't keep the smile from her eyes.

"… Gabe…? Is that you…?"

"Of _course_ it's me, and _you_ need a smaller fucking gu-"

He was interrupted as she rushed him, Harley swinging dangerously as she drew him to her in a choking strangle hold, threatening to hug the life out of him. Well, sort of.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she whispered directly into his ear, tickling him with her breath. "You've got _really_ shitty timing."

"Actually, that's just the thing," he said as he brought his arms around behind her, snapping the inhibitor collar to her neck. She reared back away from him in surprise, but not quick enough to escape the prick of a syringe on her thigh. "I'm just in the nick of time."

The last thing she could recall before she lost consciousness was the feel of his deadly arms encircling her – they had been warm and tenderly gentle. She breathed in his familiar scent as she rested her head against his chest, allowing his heartbeat to lull her to sleep.

~*~*~

"Belinda…" Claire spluttered as she came to. She could hear trickling water, she thought it might be a now-overflowing bathtub in their shared hotel room.

"She's safe," she heard him respond, suddenly aware of the blinding sunshine on the other side of her closed eyelids. She drew an arm across them and sat up with a groan. Dragging the crook of her elbow down her face, she slid her fingertips around her throat – the collar was gone.

"You asshole… I'm _SO _not sorry I shot you by the way… what the fuck -"

"What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck are _you_ doing?!?"

Suddenly quite awake, she spun around to face him.

"Hello, _rebel_! My job! What, are you a _fed_ now?!? I don't know if it's escaped you, but all of those people are still locked up in that camp!"

"Do you really think they all would've gotten away with those zillions of Guardsmen there? Claire, it would've been a massacre."

"I see, so you came _all this way_ to -"

"I was sent here with my partner to investigate the shit that presumably _you_ have been up to. You've been drawing a lot of attention, _Claire_."

She leapt to her feet, noticing for the first time they were perched on the rim of a lovely stone fountain in the middle of a secluded park, possibly near a cemetery.

"I _really_ don't need the lecture, thank you very -"

"Your handler was informed that I was coming here," he continued, ignoring her outburst, "and asked that I make an appearance in case your partner needed help with your extraction."

"Oh, yeah, you're _REALLY_ good at the _extraction_ part…"

"Claire…" he reached for her unconsciously and she smacked his hand away.

"No!" she cried, but sat back down beside him anyway, a tad dizzy, rubbing her forehead in her hands. "All those people…"

"Are _going_ to get out, just not today."

Knowing he was right, she held her tongue. She felt him shift beside her, the way he usually did when something was eating at him. She rubbed a bit more vigorously while she irritably waited him out.

"What happened to you?" he finally asked once he'd summoned the courage. She pulled her lips into a grim line as she marveled over their change in position. It seemed like forever ago she'd asked him the same question, for very likely the same reasons. "What happened to _Claire_? The girl who used to look down her nose at me because she didn't _kill_ people… and I _did_..?"

It was quiet where they were – a significant enough distance from civilization that she could hear every whispery sound the trees made, and the small animals who made their homes among them. The muted chirps and rustling leaves could do nothing to mask the hitch in her throat. She sucked her bottom lip while she held fiercely onto her composure, but one look into his dark, fathomless, safe, familiar eyes, brewing with genuine concern, obliterated her control. She dropped her face back into her hands

"I don't care if _any_ of these people live or die," she sobbed.

"I know that's not -"

"All that matters is that I have a job to do, so that I'm _occupied_. I mean, really… what else is there? All of these people are just gonna be dead on their own in a blink of an eye, anyway," she sat up, cheeks soaked, and made a wide gesture, encompassing the world around them. "So what does it fucking matter? What does _anything_ matter?!? Why do I love?!? Why do I have this _useless_ fucking womb?!? Have you had any children? Do you know???"

"To be honest, I haven't really had a lot of -"

"Everything I touch… _everything_… withers away. The only certainty I have is death. _Everything_ around me will die. So… I guess it's my gift to the world." She threw her arms in the air before they landed heavily in her lap.

"Not _everything_ is gonna leave you, Claire. I'm just…" he turned his face to the ground, inspecting a small blue bug as it tried to make off with a piece of plant detritus twice its size. "I'm just sorry I haven't always been what you wanted."

She breathed a shaky sigh as she ran her hand down his arm, smiling a sad, wet smile.

"You're right, you know. You _did_ save me today. And I _am_ sorry I shot you."

"I know."

"Do you know what you are?"

"The Lord of the Afterlife?" he grinned.

He met her eyes as she leaned into him, her strange dark, short hair sliding along her chin, failing to hide from him everything she really was.

"You're a light in the darkness," she whispered intimately. She held perfectly still as he blew a sweet, airy laugh then reached with a trembling hand to wipe the moisture from her left cheek. Slowly, trying not to spoil the moment and frighten his tentative touch away, like trying to hand-feed a wild animal, she reached to touch her fingertips to his.

It was then that she really _saw_ him for the first time. The way his cheeks had filled out a little, the way his eyes didn't cling to her so desperately, and there was a little extra softness around his middle. He seemed more… _kempt_ than usual… ordered. She gave the hand on her face a small squeeze before she pulled away. A sour feeling tugged at her gut, one she couldn't explain, and the knot in her throat grew a tad sharper. She decided to put her discomfort to words.

"So… what's her name, loverboy?"

A dimple tugged at the corner of his mouth for a brief flash before he angled away from her, leaning his elbows on his knees and hanging his clasped hands between them. He paused before answering.

"Beth."

"Beth," she repeated, nodding, amused that he'd been in time to save her from her mistake but she couldn't save him from his. Soon he'd know the pain that she knew, and she'd have given anything to protect him from it, no matter how unfair it was to him. Or maybe she just didn't like that she'd have to say goodbye to him one more time… so she could send him home to _her_.

The serenity was shattered when Gabriel's fet went crazy.

"That'd be Mike," he guessed, "my partner. We're supposed to be apprehending you. I'm gonna have to tell him I got teleported by some weird mod I never saw…"

"You're taking some pretty big risks _too_, Gabe."

"I know… but you're prettier than me."

"That doesn't make any sense," she laughed, swallowing back how much she wanted to tell him she could look at him all day if it meant they could just get away from all of this. "Please be careful," she managed, bringing her fingers to her lips in mock prayer. "_Please_. I don't know what I'd do if they got you."

"Only if you stop killing people."

Wonders never ceased… now they were making deals to get _her_ to put aside her bloodthirsty ways. She only smiled and nodded. "I'll see you later," she told him before she turned and ran away, unwilling to risk him getting caught with her. She could almost feel him waving his fingers at the back of her head as she disappeared from view.

Once she was sure she was alone yet near a recognizable landmark, she placed a call to Belinda… who didn't answer. Rebel or not, there was one thing Claire knew about twenty-year-old girls beyond the shadow of _any_ doubt: they _always_ answered their phone calls. Disconcerted, she walked a winding backwards path returning to the hotel. She took the stairs instead of the elevator, and had Harley, safety off, clutched at her trigger finger the instant her feet touched their floor. Outside the door to the room, she paused and drew a calming breath before asking her neural tap to send the security code to the lock, opting not to use the old-fashioned (yet arguably more secure) key card. Flattening herself against the wall beside the door frame, she pushed the door open with a quick push of her flattened hand.

"Callie…?" she heard Belinda's voice call Claire's alias. Something was wrong with the girl.

"Step out where I can see you, Lindy," Claire responded, not willing to walk into a trap without some assurance. She'd played this game before.

Belinda let half of her body lean out where it could be seen, but her face was pale and she wasn't walking any farther. The girl let her eyes slide closed for a quick moment at the sight of the menacing firearm in Claire's hand.

"Let's go back in slowly," Claire instructed. She followed closely behind Belinda, with Harley blazing the path over the girl's right shoulder.

"Stop," said a voice when they'd entered, and Claire was vaguely aware of a presence behind her, closing the door and sealing them inside. This was going to go only one of two ways, neither of which were going to be clean. On the far side of the room, sights lined up on Belinda's forehead, was a trim red-headed girl holding an equally impressive gun. "I _will_ shoot. Stop where you are and put it on the floor. I know you don't want her to die."

Hoping she'd still have time to reach Sandra before any bullets hit her partner, Claire complied. The pair of black suits behind them, one of which had closed the door, approached silently, placing inhibitor collars on their necks with solid snaps. Claire's mind began to whirl with possible escape routes, teetering at the edge of mounting panic, while the red-head took a couple steps closer.

"It would seem you and my boyfriend share a _long_ history."

"You… you're _Beth_…?" _Oh holy hell… Gabriel…_

"My reputation precedes me, it would seem. I've heard a lot about you as well. Gabriel can be fairly loose-lipped when he decides to trust someone." Her eyes seemed honestly apologetic. "It's a real shame, I do feel truly terrible – he seems like the kind of person who doesn't trust easily. Such a sweet, charming thing… He's a _tremendous_ lover, a good catch for someone. I'm going to miss him. I followed him here, you know. He got this girl to take him to you. He made a pretty big gamble to save you. The two of you must share something _special_."

"Look, I don't know what this is -" Claire began but was interrupted when the black suits pushed her and Belinda down onto one of the beds.

"That's okay, it's alright, it's okay," Beth replied, replacing her pistol to a hidden holster under her jacket before retrieving a tranquilizer gun. She loaded it and held it outstretched before her. "He doesn't, either." She fired twice. As the blackness rose to drown her, Claire could hear the girl's voice telling someone, "he didn't come back here, but I got the girl. Yes, that's correct, you have a go. Bring him in."

~*~*~

"Dude, where you at?"

"I got removed from the scene."

"Removed from the...?"

"Don't ask _me_, the little shits are capable of _heinous_ _crap_ - I woke up miles away, I got _removed. From. The scene_. I'm on my way back now."

"So the individuals our sources were tailing _did_ turn out to be rebels."

"Yeah but I couldn't tell you what happened after. I think it's safe to assume they aren't gonna try anything on the camp today, though. I'm headed into HQ."

"Meet you there."

Mike Hornburg disconnected the call with his '_partner_', who was also the subject of his lengthy private investigation. After months of continuous work, Beth Preston, his _real_ partner, had finally maneuvered a confession from Gabriel – aka Jonathan Kendrick – regarding his natural heritage, but had not been able to procure him in the flesh once the act was done. It was up to Mike – he was their last resort and he was going to have just one shot at it, so he called in for back up. Calculating for the delay while his signal travelled faster than the speed of light across impossible distances, he prayed his reinforcements would arrive before his quarry.

Too quickly, he reached the local F.I. office. Desperate to maintain the guise of normalcy, he rushed down to the basement level where the company gym was housed. He changed into the gym clothes he'd stashed in a locker, but left his standard issue utility holster strapped to his chest under the shirt. Knowing a nervous sweat would seem more natural if he were actually _doing _something to produce it, he picked up a ball and headed out onto the half court to shoot some hoops.

"I see how you are, pissin' off responsibility while I'm supposed to file all the logistics," he heard '_Jonathan_' call after a few minutes, voice dripping with mischief. "I'd hate to be your wife." Mike dropped down to a lazy dribble and turned to face the man.

"Think you can take me, one on one?"

"I think we're a couple nerds about to make asses out of ourselves failing miserably with hand-eye coordination," Gabe responded.

"I think you should put your money where your mouth is," Mike stalled, hoping to keep him in the confined area until the Black Guard arrived. He was trying to bounce the ball under his right knee when he saw Gabriel straighten and take a step backwards, an unreadable expression on his face. He had forgotten what Beth had told him – one of the man's abilities made him a human lie detector. It was a miracle he hadn't caught onto them before…

Without a second thought, he tucked his hand under his shirt, going for anything that might buy him some time, banking on the belief that Gabriel wouldn't react, reticent to do anything that would give him away. He yanked his pistol free from the fabric just as the door to the court banged open, the thundering of footsteps echoing off of the concrete walls as they were surrounded by over two dozen black suits. Gabriel's fingertips flexed at his side, an errant spark escaping to roll like an electric mouse, scurrying away across the glossy wooden floor.

"What is this…" he murmured anxiously.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be, Gabriel."

"How do you know my na-"

"Beth told me."

Mike gripped the gun a little tighter when he saw the man's face darken, eyes closed as he breathed a heavy sigh. He almost felt sorry for the fool, having fallen prey to the charms of a winsome female many times himself.

"You _had_ to have known something was up, buddy," he placated. Gabriel kept his face downcast, but let his shoulders fall, and his arms hang limply at his sides. "Seventy years ago an agent named Tom Krtek went missing, showed up _nine years_ later floating in a shuttle that was _out of air_, yet miraculously authorities were able to revive him. He had been accompanied by a Guardsman who had a set of fingerprints literally melted into the side of his utility belt, yet neither one of them had any burn marks. He had some kind of story that he'd been held captive in the Cancer sector by rebels. So, _decades_ later, I've got this new partner and we're investigating the old safehouse site, and we're cataloging the evidence we found, right? Well, a little while later I get this private call from Central – they called me on my holo at _home_ – saying they found the same fingerprints on some stuff _you_ collected and they ran 'em. No big deal, I mean, if the story checked out, we should've expected to find Tom Krtek all over the place there. But then they sent me over the face that _matched_, and-"

"And you're lookin' at him."

"Weird, huh? I mean, you haven't changed at _all_, not a single fuckin' _day_. _Seventy fuckin' years_ – that's enough time to go from diapers back to fuckin' diapers. I mean, we're not an _Intelligence_ office for nothing, right? So, of course we were gonna figure all this out. Anyway, I got a visit from the field director – again, at my _house_ – telling me I was being reassigned and I was to tell absolutely _NO ONE_. He brought with him this cute little undercover transfer from Aries, said he had a plan to take down a suspected _rebel. _ _Double_. A_gent_."

"Beth…" Gabriel whispered, leaving his eyes shut but tilting his chin to shake his head in disbelief.

"Yeah… don't be pissed at her though – I think she still kinda liked you, even after she got you to tell her what you _really_ are -"

Gabriel's arm shot out and Mike hit the wall. There was a rushing sound as every black suit in the cramped and suffocating space lifted their weapon and halted, waiting for the command to be given to fire. The place grew deafeningly quiet as they watched their target's face contort with fury. When his eyes reopened, Gabriel was gone.

Sylar's shoulders heaved with hurt and the promise of certain death. Mike slid down the wall to land on his butt, almost losing his firearm despite his years of training.

"You're gonna need a lot more than this, _buddy_," the killer growled, bolts of lightning leaping from his body like a brewing thunderstorm. Before Mike could do much more than flinch, Sylar dropped to one knee, his long black jacket billowing around him, and swung both arms in huge arcs drawing a perfect circle in the air. There were a few wet grunts before all of the shadow men began to fall over, one by one, spilling their insides into writhing, slimy red, pink, and blue piles of organs, slopping as they hit the floor. He had cut them all in half.

"H-h-holy shit…" Mike whispered before he began to wretch.

Sylar left charred black footprints in the wood as he made a slow, menacing approach toward his betrayer. Gathering his wits, Mike raised his gun and fired four shots, all of which grouped beautifully into Sylar's chest, but ultimately proved a futile waste of time and energy. He lost control of his bladder when the madman stopped at his feet, lifting him with an unseen force and causing his urine to drip down his legs and into his shoes, which elicited a cruel chuckle from his attacker.

"You know what I find funny about this whole situation? I just think it's _hysterical_ that an _Intelligence_ agency can expect to mess with the bull… but _not_ receive the horns."

Mike screamed as his belly began to split open.

"_STOP_!" a voice bellowed from somewhere behind Sylar. He turned to see a singular Guardsman miraculously rising to his feet. The invalid nearly lost his balance as he tossed out his hand, acting quickly before Sylar had the chance to react. Mike tumbled sideways with a loud thud and slid across the floor until he disappeared into an adjacent locker room, whose door then slammed shut and locked as if by a disembodied spirit.

"_You_ again," Sylar sneered as he slammed the Shadow Man back down to the floor where he was pinned, motionless.

"I know you didn't kill Claire!" he cried.

Sylar halted, dumbfounded. _Of_ _course_ _he didn't_… although there was that _one_ time, like, four hundred years ago or something… "Whuh…?"

"Just… just lemme go for a second, will you dammit?!? I know she's here, and I know you do too! Look, it's not rocket science, they're _after_ her and -"

"How do you know Claire…? Who _are_ you?"

"Let me go and I will _show_ you." Famously distrustful, Sylar hesitated. "Goddammit, fuckin' let me _go_!!! _She's in trouble_!!!"

"She's a rebel, she's _always_ in trouble," he replied, but managed to release his hold out of curiosity. The Shadow Man touched an unseen mechanism at his throat, disabling the masking device and revealing a face Sylar hadn't seen in centuries – that of Peter Petrelli. So _that_ was unexpected. His jaw hung open. "Holy…"

"Quick, put this on," Peter instructed as he began to strip one of his fallen brethren.

"… where the _hell_ did you come from…?"

"You just gonna stand there?!? We gotta _go_ – here, take this!!!" He tossed a newly liberated yet hideously sliced suit in Gabriel's direction.

"Peter fuckin' Petrelli…?"

"_Dude_!!!"

"Right. Uhh… you know I can shapeshift…"

"Yes - _intimately_. I don't care. _Put it on_."

Complying out of completely bewildered bemusement, he stripped to his underwear and pulled on the suit, activating the masking device in the same manner Peter did. He followed as they fled the building at a brisk, businesslike walk before anyone would have the chance to discover the mess they left behind.

"Two suits are less suspicious than one," Peter whispered once they got outside, pounding feet putting distance between themselves and the scene of the massacre. "We need to get someplace secluded so I can try to get a lock on Claire's location."

"How're you gonna do that?"

"Do you remember little Molly Walker?"

"No."

"She's the one who could find people? Used a map?"

"Oh yeahhhh… I killed her family."

Peter stopped walking. "You know, you could just left that part -"

"I know where Claire's hotel room is."

"… you do?"

"Yeah! We're friends!" If Peter's face hadn't been made featureless by an inky black mask, Gabriel would've seen him gaping. "… and her handler called me."

"That makes a little more sense. By all means, lead the way."

"So, uhh" Gabriel began after a few paces, "what's the deal with the suit anyway? And why the fuck have you been chasing me? Why didn't you just _tell_ me who you are?"

"For starters, I didn't think it would matter. And then… you weren't gonna like where I was going to take you."

"If you're saying you were gonna turn me in, then yeah I gotta agree… I would've probably put a stop to that," he huffed with bravado.

"You need to understand something," Peter insisted, tugging Gabriel's elbow and drawing them up to a stop one more time. "The mod injection – the same one that's killing them, making them subservient to the Federal Government – the same one that forces them into camps unless they're fortunate enough to be rescued and supported by the rebel network – it's the complete brainchild of a woman who found a _virus_ floating around in _your bloodstream_. The Shanti virus. Can you imagine what the world would be like if there was a cure? What would it be like if suddenly, all the mods in the universe didn't _need_ shots anymore to stay alive…? We could get them out of these fucking camps and they'd never have to go back! Do you get it??? But here's the thing, right? The original cure came from a mixture of Claire's and Mohinder's blood. So, for all _I_ knew for the past four hundred years, Claire's been dead. Mohinder committed suicide out of guilt while held in captivity. So what now? Well, alright, no problem, there's two people running around – just _two_ – who've been _cured_ of the virus – who now carry both the virus _and_ the cure in their hot little bodies. But one of those people – Molly – escaped never to be seen again. And I _looked_, using _her_ ability… which doesn't bode well for her outcome. That leaves -"

"Me…"

"Yeah. You're the only person in the _universe_ who can save us." Peter paused for emphasis, looking around them and watching for prying eyes, and took a deep breath before continuing. "So, a few years after people started getting injected I escaped, but I didn't leave. They had experimented on me, enough that I regained the full use of my original ability… so I saw an opportunity. I put on this suit… and became a _shadow_. I thought I might try my hand and taking them down from the inside. They had all this technology, and all these _abilities_… I thought maybe if I could use them to get you, I could also gain more than just a cure to the virus – I could gain _your_ ability… I could _understand_ how to make a cure. The only problem was… by that time you were no longer in the facility in Indiana… in fact, you were _nowhere to be found_. You were missing for _three hundred years_."

"I was underground. In Leavenworth."

Peter pushed himself a bit closer, incredulity lacing his whisper. "You… spent three hundred years… _in prison_…?"

"Three hundred and twenty, and a few extra months I think."

"Huh."

"At least ten of that in psychotherapy."

"Wow."

"Yeah. And Claire and I _are_ friends. She said so. You can ask her."

"Yeah, _okay_…" Peter drawled as they started walking. "Claire got her face all over the news, you know – s'how I found out she was still alive -"

"You really did think she was dead this whole time…?"

"Yes, but -"

"I can't believe that actually worked…"

"_Anyway_, it's gonna be a lot easier for them to find her. So much of the injection formula is based on Mohinder's work – and for the past several decades, especially _here_, they've been messing with the mixture which tells me they've dusted off his old notes. It's not a far step for them to discover what they'd _truly have_ in their grasp if they got a hold of her…"

They quickened their pace.

They charged into the hotel lobby once they arrived, carrying the assured gait of two men who owned the place. Still feared and seen as a necessary evil in many societies, people recoiled slightly at the sight of them, mothers clutched their children a bit more tightly than necessary, people purposely averted their eyes, trying to avoid their eerie aura. It made their passage to the proper floor move more smoothly – no one stopped to question them. Peter followed Gabriel to the door he'd passed through earlier, when he'd asked sweet Belinda to transport him wherever Claire had gone. Peter produced a frequency-jamming keycard from his utility belt, making swift work of the lock.

They stepped into an empty room – luggage gone, towels folded, bed made, chocolates on the pillows, small soaps and shampoos still packaged and ready for use. Peter sat on the bed and steepled his fingers in thought… until he noticed an object sticking out from under the bed by his left foot.

"Looks like they've already gone," Gabriel began, "which is g-" and stopped himself when he leaned with one hand against a dresser. Images flooded his mind… Guardsmen… and Beth… _Beth_ had been here… Beth _shot_ her…

"Sylar," Peter called, breaking his trance. He spun to face him with fright. "Look at this."

Pinched between his fingertips was a spent tranquilizer dart.

"Son of a bitch…"

**A/N #2: Omg he's gonna have to save her!!! =D**


	12. 12 Escape to Paradise

**A/N: So if anyone was ever doubting that the Sylaire action was EVER going to start in this fic I'm pleased to say that the ball's really rollin' now. Enjoy =D It's pure fluff and plot resolution from here on out!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**12) Escape to Paradise**

Olivia was thankful for the heat radiating from the stripping on the small ceiling above her head. She sat at the hoverbus stop, waiting for her morning commute while the structure shielded her body from the cold March-like deluge, common to the local climate year round. She found it interesting how human kind had progressed to the point where they were zipping around the galaxy in spaceships whose engines literally folded space… but on a day like this she was still using an umbrella. Warming her left hand around her coffee travel mug, her fingers still tucked tightly in the cuff of her sweater, she used her free hand to pull news feeds onto her fet. She was catching up on the action in the Leo sector, which had made a few headlines, when the display was interrupted by her messaging client.

"89425" was all it said. It was a private numeric code, shared only between she and Peter. It was a signal that he needed help. Alone under the little shanty because she was an early riser, she gave him an immediate call back while she had the privacy.

"What happened to '_laying low for a while?_'" she asked when Peter answered his fet.

"I've had a little setback." Of _course_ he had. "I need to know if you can get some information for us -"

"_Us_?"

"- I won't be able to lock down a solid hit on a map while she's still in transit. I need to know where she's being transported – what name did you say she was going by?" The last part was muffled as he put his hand over the speaker and addressed someone, presumably next to him.

"Peter -"

"_Callie_ – she's using the alias _Callie_."

"I can only assume you're referring to Claire."

"Yes, but obviously you won't find her under that name, so -"

"Wasn't it supposed to be all kinds of easy to find her…?"

"Well, she got caught and we don't exactly have a lot of _time_ here, so if you could -"

"_Peter_, I'm not at work yet and who is this _WE_ you keep talking about? Don't tell me you got _him_ and not _her_! Because that would be hysterical."

"…well… uhh…"

"He's there with you, isn't he."

"Yes. Yes he is."

"Put him on the phone."

"…huh?"

"I said put that _asshole_ on the _phone_."

Wise enough to obey a hostile woman, he muttered a '_she wants to talk to you_' before relinquishing the fet to his companion.

"… yes?" she heard a new baritone purr at her across the line.

"_You're_ Sylar."

"… yes ma'am…?"

She then performed the one move that had branded her famously as the Digi-Strangler for so long in her youth. She phased her hand directly into the transmitter of the device, stretching her particles like a silver thread faster than the speed of light for billions of miles, where they coalesced on the other side of call. Her hand reached out of Peter's fet to crush its fingers deep into Gabriel's throat.

"I should've warned you -"

"_YOU_," she roared, "are a _MAJOR_ pain in the fucking ass, do you know that?!? I hope you fucking _rot_, _do you hear me_?!? And that is _all_ I have to say to you, you _dickhead_! Now, shut up and put Peter back on the phone." He kept perfectly quiet as he watched her spectral hand shrink back into the fet and disappear. Peter tried not to look too victorious as he received his device. He failed.

"Look," Olivia continued, "I'm still waiting on the hoverbus, but once I get to the office I'll look into this Callie chick. It'd help if you had a last name…"

"We don't."

"Because there's probably a million rebels named '_Callie_' out there…"

"Who just got picked up here in Leo no more than three hours ago, give or take?"

"…That does kinda narrow it down. I'll see what I can find." Her transport pulled up, sloshing a miniature tidal wave of dirty brown water in the wake of the air coursing underneath it. She disconnected her call, tucked her fet into her shouldered bag, shifted her warm mug to her now colder right hand, and stepped aboard.

~*~*~

Claire's eyelashes ripped apart like a sticky zipper when she tried to open her eyes. They had secreted a substance that had dried and crusted over, and she had a horrid taste in her mouth. She lay very still while she waited for her vision to clear, acutely aware she couldn't move her limbs. And the cold, heavy weight of the inhibitor collar still rested around her throat, angled from the way she was laying to dig uncomfortably into her collarbones. Just as she was beginning to think that maybe she'd lost her sight, she came to the realization that the room was really just that dark, with the exception of a few blinking lights emanating from various pieces of machinery. Sound began to drift to her ears like it had been carried a long way on a distant breeze – she could hear whispers and whimpers. She wasn't alone. They were all prisoners, but their captors had secured them and left. Perhaps it was nighttime, wherever she was.

Deciding that if the enemy were with them the lights would be _on_, she took a gamble.

"Hello…?" she meant to call out, but her voice struggled to make sound, breaking free from her as a choked rasp. "Is someone there?"

"Callie? Callie!" It was Belinda. "Is that you?!?"

"Yeah, Lindy, it's me, but my name's not really -"

"Oh my god, I'm in a cage! And my clothes are gone – what are they gonna do to us?!?"

"Shhh, be quiet, dey migh' hear you…" hissed another voice, a woman with a strange accent. "Who knows where dey be, could be right outsi'e…"

Belinda had made an excellent point. Sensation began to pour through her body like a sleeping limb that had begun to awaken, and she felt cool breeze waft over far too great an expanse of skin. She was strapped to a table in the blessed dark, completely stark naked. Oh, the humanity. She flexed her muscles as she struggled against her bonds and discovered something else – she had a sickening number of foreign objects protruding from her body, stinging at the points where they punctured her flesh. She couldn't see what they were, but they felt like needles and she suspected they were connected to tubes, bags, vials, and machines. She was in a terrifying trap, but she wasn't going to panic. She repeated her mantra inside her head – '_what would daddy do_?'

The first thing she did was relax her entire body, accepting her situation, recognizing she wasn't in any real pain. She regulated her breathing and let her heart rate drop, mimicking the pattern of continued slumber. Her first objective was to get free of her bonds, followed immediately by removing her collar. She explored what little of her surroundings she could, with agonizingly slow movements. She was definitely on a bed in what she was certain was a laboratory. Twirling her wrists, her fingers were able to feel tubes on either side, hanging off the side of the mattress, delivering fluids to and from her body. She had an idea – an extremely ugly one that would require quick reflexes. It was also potentially going to be very painful. Fortunately, to her, pain was a luxury.

She wrapped and tangled her wrists with the tubes as tightly as she could manage, letting them bind her while her pulse thudded hard enough to make her slightly queasy. She kept breathing, focusing on anything else, until her hands became so numb they gave out, hanging limply from her bonds. Knowing her next move was going to significantly change her breath and heart rate, alerting her monitors, she resolved to move as rapidly as she could. She sucked in one deep last breath that she held as she squeezed her eyes shut, surrendering to the trauma she was about to put herself through.

As fast and as hard as she could, she yanked her numb, club-like hands back against the metal cuffs that restrained her, pulling continuously as she heard the bones pop and snap and her broken hands finally slid free.

"Callie…?" Belinda called when she heard her grunt. Claire ignored her and kept moving.

Her useless, destroyed fingers fell heavily into her lap when she sat up. She had to get the collar off in order to get them to heal. Blood began to flood the starving vessels in the limbs once again, and probably leaked from them in several places, and pangs began to shoot up her arms as her nerve endings returned to life. She twisted at the waist, with her ankles still bound, and dropped her hands onto a tray next to the bed, laden with all manner of tools and implements. What she lacked in dexterity she was beginning to make up for in feeling – she could make out some of the shapes and textures. One was a scalpel, another few were syringes. She kept prodding until she found an item that felt distinctly like the tool used on the collar. Finding fine motor control nearly impossible, she ended up stretching to the point her spine cracked, pinching a nerve in her neck, until she could pick up the long, slender piece of metal in her teeth, which she then gripped in a clumsy, swollen fist. The pain was becoming overbearing, putting girlish tears in her eyes. Embarrassed, she sniffled while she fumbled at the collar, looking for that one sweet spot into which the utensil would sink. She sobbed victoriously when she found it, leaning forward with exhaustion, letting the whole apparatus fall onto her thighs.

She waited for her ability to return, waited for the familiar twitching ache that her bones made when they mended themselves, waited for the tingling of her knitting flesh… but nothing happened. She sat rigidly still with horror, realizing that her destroyed and excruciatingly throbbing hands could do nothing to free her still-trapped feet, knowing that her enemy was aware of her consciousness. They would find her, hands free and collar off, ashamedly naked and in the middle of a failed attempt at escape. They would do more than experiment on her – they would torture her. And she would _feel_ it. Something was wrong with her – something was wrong with her _ability_. They _did_ something to her, and she didn't know what to do.

~*~*~

"We can't stay here," Gabriel muttered as he paced the floor of the hotel room.

"I know," Peter replied, letting his fet's holo-display throw up a GPS map of the city. Starting near the location of the camp, he began a search that he knew was going to be futile.

"Seriously, we gotta go." Gabriel tugged at the curtains on the window, fidgeting nervously and driving a huge wedge into Peter's concentration. "If Beth took Claire, she knew we were connected somehow… it's not a far stretch for them to figure out we'd come here looking for her."

"Gimme just a minute," Peter growled, still finding no trace of his niece anywhere. He hung his head with an exasperated sigh when his fet left the mattress to fly through the air, smacking into Gabriel's outstretched hand.

"Dude. _We. Have. To go_."

"Alright! Alright. _Fuck_."

Peter crossed the room and snatched his fet back before stalking out the door, glowering, with an anxious Gabriel at his heels.

"Where should we go?" his unlikely partner asked once they were inside the stairwell.

"Hell if _I_ know. I'm having trouble thinking of _anyplace_ secluded yet within walking distance where we won't look suspicious, except for the hotel room we were just in."

"We need to ditch these suits," Gabriel responded, ignoring the jab, "_they're_ what's drawing attention to us – without them we're like anyone else."

"Are you kidding…? The whole reason I've gotten this far is because of this suit! I've worn it for _centuries_, I'm not dropping it _now_!"

They marched across the hotel lobby in silence, but Peter could plainly see Gabriel's jaw clenching. Once they got outside Gabriel drew him up close by his elbow and hissed in his ear.

"You wanna be a danger to yourself? Fine. Fuck you, I don't care. But I'm actually _interested_ in getting Claire back and I won't let you screw up my chances, got it? Now, with or _without_ you, I'm _going_ to find some civilian clothing, and I'm _going_ to shapeshift like I suggested earlier." He turned on his heels and stomped away across the street. Not willing to let the quarry he'd chased for so long disappear into a milling crowd now that he finally had him, Peter jogged to catch up.

"Alright, fine, we'll do it your way, but I'm _not_ ditching the suit and I suggest you do the same. We can dress over them, but I'm telling you we're _gonna_ need 'em later."

"Fine. We need to find a residential district. I can break us into someone's house while they're at work and -"

"I have a better idea, there's a market a few blocks south."

"Isn't that kinda public for theft…?"

"Says the dude who slit my brother's throat in broad daylight, in the middle of Washington D.C.," Peter sneered. "The bombs the rebels use – they're made with some kind of weird cloth, right? A cloth made of an unstable fiber? Well, let's go confiscate some '_suspicious looking items_.'"

It was a stroke of pure genius.

The same as earlier, the crowd peeled away like a banana when they entered the loud and boisterously colorful place of commerce. Conservative housewives, shopping for home items, eyed them with harsh yet disdainful approval, while more liberal highwaymen, there to place deals in shadowy corners, watched them mistrustfully, swerving out of their way but keeping their hands close to their concealed, and most likely illegal, weapons. As eager as he was to change his appearance, Sylar had to admit that he enjoyed the aura the suit granted him. He clamped down on the ridiculous urge to yell '_BOO!_' and laugh. He still took a private thrill when people backed away from him in fright.

"There," Peter whispered beside him, beckoning toward a small tent constructed outside the covered market area. Sure enough, the place was stuffed with bolts of cloth and decorated with racks of artistically crafted clothing. "_Bingo_."

They nimbly picked their way through the narrow aisles until they reached their destination. Peter stepped ahead, having had more experience with the stiff, business-like illusion of belonging to the Black Guard. He ripped a shirt off of its hanger and flipped a strap on his utility belt, freeing a small hand-held scanner. He made a grand show of inspecting the article very closely.

"Fuckin' boogeymen, why don't you go bother someone else," snarled a hugely fat man, splayed lazily in a corner, puckering his blubbery lips to the nozzle on a hose leading to a beautiful pipe. An odor like sickeningly sweet incense invaded Gabriel's senses as he backed away in surprise. He calmed, reminding himself it wasn't the first time he'd been termed as such. Hoping to display some sort of false authority over the situation, he reached for the gun on his utility belt… only to realize it wasn't there. He'd gotten himself dressed in a suit, but in their haste to flee the scene he hadn't grabbed a belt. _Shit_…

"It would appear your friend seems ill-prepared, perhaps he is _defective_," the man crooned at Peter, strange mauve-colored smoke swirling away under his jowls. "Or _perhaps_… you aren't Guardsmen at _all_. I don't know _who_ you are, but you need to get _lost_."

Gabriel nearly grew ill as the world twisted and spun before him, and his feet curled toward his head. Also affected by the vertigo, Peter dropped the shirt and his scanner and crashed to his knees. Knowing that the protective suits they wore partially mitigated the effects of mod abilities, he hated to think what the raw deal would feel like. Tumbling backwards, out of control while his surroundings whirled like a kaleidoscopic pinwheel, Gabriel reached back and caught hold of a bolt of fabric before his shoulders hit the ground.

He sighed with relief as his one of his own abilities clouded his vision, replacing the nauseating panorama with glimpses of the physical memories stored in the inanimate object. He flashed through every face that had touched the silky cloth until he landed on one with short brown hair and bright green eyes – eyes he'd know better than if they were his own.

"Claire…" he whispered without realizing the breath had left him.

"Stop!" a woman's voice called from across what felt like a huge, foggy chasm, and he clamped his eyes shut when the spinning returned. Bile rose threateningly in his throat. Somewhere, he thought he could hear Peter sputtering wetly.

The world abruptly stood still when a small, frail hand clamped with unanticipated strength on his shoulder. He parted his eyelids to find an old woman on the other side, staring at him expectantly. "What did you say???"

"These guys are trouble, I wouldn't -"

"Oh hush," she chided her partner. "Tell me what you said. Did you say '_Claire_'?"

Gabriel sat up and straightened before he nodded affirmatively at the woman.

"How do you know her name – her _real_ name???"

"How do _you_ know her real name?" the fat man berated her.

"Now that's a stupid question, don't you think?" She glanced around wildly before she grabbed at Gabriel. "Come with me, quickly. Both of you."

He pitched forward as she tugged him to his feet, stumbling to follow her. She lead them to a small, rusted trailer parked behind the tent. Peter hesitated momentarily, grabbing his scanner and seeing where they were headed, but the woman would have none of it.

"Quickly, inside," she directed, holding open the door, ushering rapidly with her hands.

"Okay, I'll bite," Gabriel deadpanned once Peter stepped past the entrance and the door shut behind them. "How do _you_ know Claire?"

"You're not Guardsmen, I can tell by your voices. You can take off those ridiculous masks," she said, ignoring the question momentarily as she rummaged through a cabinet above a dirty sink. Finding what she was looking for, she turned to face them and gestured that they should have a seat at the table in the middle of the small space. She held in her hands a small crystalline sphere which she thrust out between the three of them. She closed her eyes and hummed a few bars of a song Gabriel had never heard, and he sucked in a short breath when the crystal began to glow. When the woman finished her quiet recital and reopened her eyes, they glowed the same way, bathing them in a strange, unnatural light.

"You both know Claire, have known her for a very long time. She means something to _both_ of you, yet not quite the same thing." The woman was a psychic. _Excellent_. "You both love her very much." An _indiscreet_ psychic... "You are correct, she was here earlier, and I can tell you where she is now."

"Where?!?" Peter pounced forward. "Is she safe???"

"She is in grave danger, Brother and Boyfriend."

"What? No -"

"I'm _not_ -"

"She is in a Federal laboratory, in the Taurus sector."

As if on cue, Peter's fet sang noisily, breaking the woman's trance, causing her to drop her sphere to where it rolled off the table and across the floor.

"Olivia," he answered while Gabriel and the psychic chased the meandering crystal.

"I found her," she told him, "they moved her quietly because apparently they were also investigating a double agent and didn't want tip him off." Overhearing her, Gabriel stood and sighed loudly. "It looks like they've taken her and her partner to -"

"The Taurus sector, we know."

"Yes."

"_Fuck_. The feds are staying put for probably another couple months, I know they're gonna keep the Guard here for at least a few more weeks, I have no idea how we're gonna get off this planet…"

"Correction: they're gonna keep the _live_ ones there. The _dead_ ones, however, like, I dunno, the _huge clump_ of 'em who all mysteriously got sawed in half in the _Feds' own office_, are leaving in thirty minutes on a transport back to Pisces for recycling. If you can make it onto that ship, I can reprogram its landing coordinates remotely so that it happens to show up… _someplace else_."

"Olivia, you are _brilliant_!"

"Of course I am. So, how'd you find out she was there…?"

"We asked a psychic. Gotta go. Thank you!"

Snapping shut the fet, he whipped around to face Gabriel.

"You any good at playing dead?"

~*~*~

Just because the bodies hadn't quite begun to rot didn't mean the air on the transport wasn't stale and unpleasant. Since the cargo hold wasn't catering to the needs of the living, certain comforts like _circulation_ had been neglected in favor of diverting power to the engines for greater efficiency. Peter had used Matt Parkman's old ability to make themselves invisible to bystanders, granting them easy access to their only means of transportation.

"Doesn't exactly look like we're dressed for the occasion…" Gabriel muttered, noticing the macabre payload had been stacked neatly and individually wrapped in black body bags like sinister chocolate bars.

"Here," Peter called, having stubbed his toe on an open crate of extras. "Catch."

He tossed one across the stagnant bay to where it landed in Gabriel's open palm, who, after glancing around, came to a grisly conclusion.

"…so I'm just supposed to make a nest here… snuggle up against some stiff and lay here for god knows how long -"

"Don't tell me you – _you_ – are suddenly squeamish about dead bodies…"

Whatever. He was the Lord of the fucking Afterlife, for Christ's sake, and he wasn't about to be bested by Claire's prancing pony dickhead uncle. Biting back a scathing response, he laid the bag out with a harsh wave, dove into it, made a huge show of wiggling around, making a space for his butt between all the knees and elbows underneath him, then zipped himself shut. Somewhere over the sound of his breath ricocheting off of the surrounding nylon, he heard Peter's zipper mimic his own. Irritable and desperate for fresh air, he thought it a better idea to step away from reality for the duration of their long flight and retreat to the sanctuary of his own mind.

"I mean," Peter interrupted, obviously not going to allow him any peace. The flight just got _longer_. "You're the one who made this mess, right? Isn't that a little like making a great big sandwich then turning your nose up at it?"

So he wanted to start something, did he? Gabriel wasn't going to rise to the bait.

"I just figured," he continued, "that since you were content to live in my brother's body for _five whole years_ that maybe you'd _enjoy_ another chance to wallow in your own filth."

Gabriel expected to feel Sylar clawing at his shoulders, begging for the chance to force some quiet into that mouth the _hard_ way… but nothing happened. Maybe his heart was exhausted – he'd had a hard day. He'd had a hard _life_. Or maybe he was more interested in trying to accept that he was becoming a different man… despite the evidence that was currently poking him torturously in his right kidney.

"These guys aren't real, you know," he mumbled although he was sure Peter could still hear him. "They're just _dolls_ that get recycled…"

"Nathan wasn't a _doll_."

Gabriel tossed uncomfortably, turning away from him onto his side, cradling his head under his hands. He was prepared to take the man's abuse – he obviously needed to give it, and maybe there was a little of it Gabriel still needed to receive. After all, he shouldn't have expected that hundreds of years would lessen the man's grief the same way it had in Claire. She was a pillar of strength even _he_ couldn't aspire to.

"It's crazy, you know," Peter laughed, "how this reminds me of these camping trips we used to take, upstate, on some land we owned, by a river…" He was quiet a moment, like he expected him to be able to relate. But he'd never had a brother. Never really had a mother or father, either. Never gone camping. Was it better to have had and lost, or never to have had at all? "This one time, it was just me and him, I think we were squirrel hunting or something. Anyway, we got in this huge fight, not sure what about. All I remember is he popped me one, real good, right in the face. I probably had it coming, but it stung like hell. We didn't talk for hours and _there we were_ – just the two of us, miles from home – _pissed_. It wasn't until we were in our sleeping bags, all zipped up like this next to the fire, looking up at the stars we used to name together, and we were waiting to see who was gonna talk first. The stars were waiting for us…" He paused for a moment, contemplating the cruel metaphor. "He ended up singing his apology into the dark… and I know I'd still be missing him, even if you hadn't taken him from me, but it's just _easier_ having someone to hate."

An odd silence passed between them, filled with expectancy and misgiving.

"I'm sorry," Gabriel breathed, the warmth of his admission coating his cheeks.

"You think sorry's gonna cover all that?"

"No, but it still needed to be said."

Letting the conversation fall, he settled in for a long, boring, awkward, and tensely quiet flight. Thirty minutes later, just as he and little Sylar were standing in a field of red blossoms, having gotten a pair of kites to lift into a headwind that was as turbulent and unsettled as he was, Peter's voice ripped him away one more time.

"Alright, I'm bored. Here we go, ready? I spy, with my little eye, something….. _black_!"

~*~*~

She felt like an animal caught in a trap. And not the kind children build with boxes, sticks, and string – the kind that had broken her body and was going to require that she chew off a limb to get free. Just as she was contemplating traumatizing her ankles in the same manner she'd employed on her hands, Belinda's voice reached her again.

"Callie… what's happening? What did you do?"

Claire turned in the direction of the sound. She had another idea.

"I got my collar off, Lindy – the tool is still in it but both my hands are broken -"

"Oh my god, are you _serious_? How did you -"

"Listen to me – we don't have much time. My feet are still bound and I can't get them free, and I think we're gonna have company -"

"Dere's so many, how we gonna figh' dem…" whispered the other woman's accented voice.

"Lindy, I need to you keep talking to me – I'm going to try to throw my collar to you. If you can use the tool to get your own collar off, you can get us out of here."

"Okay, well, I was born on Earth, actually – I'm from Canada, and I have a dog named Patches because she's a Dalmatian, and I've been an orphan as long as I can remember, and -" She stopped when she heard Claire cry out, launching the apparatus to where it crashed and slid across the floor into the door of the cell next to her.

"Did I make it?!?"

"Almost…" Belinda grunted as she reached her arm through the bars of her cage, flailing in the dark for an item she knew had to be there _somewhere_… if she could _just_ get her fingers… to _reach_…

"Fuck! '_Almost_' is a death sentence!" Claire dramatically flopped herself back onto the mattress. The warrior in her bit down on her lips as she brought her mangled fingers to her eyes. She pushed away the tears in an effort to keep thinking – she _wouldn't_ give up. If she could just grasp a scalpel or two she could go down fighting. She would've lobbed off her right arm if it meant she could've had an ounce of Gabriel's telekinesis. She would've lobbed off _both_ arms if it meant he could be here with her…

"I got it!!!"

"Oh thank god – thank _god_!!!" Claire allowed herself to sob triumphantly, pressing her wrists against her brow. For a split second, an irrational fear lanced through her, thinking that Belinda might whisk herself away and leave the rest of them there, but then her retinas were assaulted by a fiercely violent purple light by her feet. The silhouette of the girl's form emerged from the portal and immediately set to the task of undoing Claire's remaining bonds. _Good girl, good girl_! She ran her arms up and down her body while her partner worked, dislodging needles and tubes like spindly spiderwebs. "Help me get the others," she beckoned to Belinda once she was free.

"I don't think so."

Claire no sooner had the bottoms of her feet on the chilly tile before she had to squeeze shut her watering eyes. The room had suddenly been illuminated, blinding her with brilliant, stabbing light. Beside her, Belinda shrieked. Whomever had spoken had flipped on the light switch.

"Stay where you are," the speaker directed.

Claire wiggled her fingers, testing them. The pain had subsided a little, and her flexibility had slightly increased. While her ability was still very sluggish, it _was_ working, despite the chemicals they'd pumped into her. Feeling a bit more invincible, she decided she wasn't going to do what she was told. She peeked open her eyelids to meet the barrel of a handgun, lined up before a pair of sea-foam colored irises. Beth looked like the confident type who could be a pretty good shot if she really tried. Claire suspected that, if the world were different, she'd really like her. Well, if she kept her dirty claws out of _Gabe_, that is. She wondered if she'd be able to wrestle the gun away from her.

"You can't hurt me," she warned, charging forward, intent on getting her still-healing hands around the girl's pale neck.

"Wanna bet?" Beth replied as she pulled the trigger twice.

"NO!!!!" Belinda screamed.

Fire exploded through Claire's chest and abdomen, and asphyxiating fluids – presumably mostly blood – flooded her throat. Her knees gave out and she gagged, landing hard on her right elbow as it caught on the mattress she'd just left behind, still warm from where she'd been stretched. Belinda flung herself forward in a mindless attempt to attack, but was quickly dispatched when Beth fired a third shot into the girl's belly. She dropped where she was with a grunt.

"_Lindy_! Why…" Claire sputtered weakly as she struggled to regain her footing. "Your fight's with me, you bitch!!!!"

"I fight what I'm told to. Currently, my fight is with your entire species. It's nothing personal." Beth brought the weapon around and took aim for her fourth shot. Her scream rang discordantly in Claire's ears when a crackling purple disc flashed around her forearms before dissipating. Beth's severed hands, still holding the gun, dropped away from her to land with a heavy thud next to Belinda's collapsed frame.

"Holy shit…" Claire muttered to the girl, hoping she was still alive enough to hear her, "didn't know you could do _that_…"

Beth wailed until she was hoarse and her voice gave out, mission forgotten, as she backed herself into a wall and slid down its length to the floor. In the distance Claire could hear footsteps thundering through the hallway outside the room. Was… was that screaming?

"Dey be comin'! _Do_ something!!!!"

Claire did the only thing she knew how to do. Gulping down the sickening ball of liquid, she forced her trembling legs to carry her forward. Next to Belinda she bent at the middle, clamping both hands around the scalding hot barrel of the firearm, shaking away the graying and twitching limbs still clinging to the grip. Bleeding and fighting for consciousness, breath leaving her in gurgling rasps, she stumbled a few steps until she reached Beth, who had tucked her stumps into her armpits and was digging ruts into the floor with her heels as she writhed.

"You…" Claire wheezed, "… you hurt someone… I _care_ about." And she wasn't just referring to Belinda. Summoning the last of her strength, she lifted her arms, bringing the butt of the pistol high in the air behind her. With a mighty blow, she let her hands fall, rendering Beth unconscious with a revolting crack to her skull.

As the adrenaline left her, so did her fortitude. Her legs crumpled and she smashed down onto her kneecaps.

"No! NO!!!!" someone cried as two vaguely human-shaped shadows entered the room. The first threw his arm out at her and an unseen force crushed her windpipe, immobilizing her out of panic. The second turned his attention to her as well, twirling his fingers, creating a cloud that surrounded her body… a _red_ cloud, she realized, as sharp pricks began to pierce her everywhere, from the inside out – he was pulling her blood through her skin, desiccating her. She tried to raise her gun but couldn't move. She was horrified to discover she couldn't even manage a final, desperate scream.

The crimson halo plummeted to a thick puddle around her, bathing her, when an object struck the second black suit. A large, black, vaguely _man-shaped_ object… As the rushing left her ears, she could've sworn she heard more howls from somewhere…

A third shadow man entered the room, but this one was different. He glowed with raging blue lightning, left scorching footsteps where he walked, and didn't wear a mask. Fury burned across his familiar features as he electrocuted his prey, leaving him nothing more than a smoking lump, then turned to the Guardsman who was still strangling her. She hacked uncontrollably, sucking air into damaged lungs, as the hold on her was released. Her attacker circled his arm around to defend himself but found he was horribly outmatched. He never had the chance to act – the newcomer lifted only one finger, cleanly removing the suit's head from his shoulders. Amidst a spray of blood, his useless body slumped to the floor. A fourth unmasked shadow man appeared over Gabriel's left shoulder. Reaching out her hand in relief, she freely let her tears fall, letting the renegade dissolve to reveal the woman she really was.

"I knew you'd come… I _knew_ it…"

The other man shouldered past him, catching her as she grew faint and pitched backward. A grey haze began to cloud her vision, causing her to believe she was hallucinating.

"…Are… are you _Peter_…?"

"Yeah, it's me," he smiled. Maybe she _wasn't_ seeing things. Nope, _definitely_ not. Behind him, Beth's body rose into the air to where it hovered with unnatural stillness, in preparation for something truly gruesome.

"Gabriel," she coughed, digging her fingernails into Peter's shoulder as she clutched herself to him unsteadily. "Don't…"

Peter followed her gaze to where it met Sylar's vengeful, murderous eyes. Energy still rippled from him, climbing the walls and shooting across the ceiling.

"You've worked so hard…" she continued, "… don't let some worthless _whore_ screw that up for you." Realizing she was right, and that he'd do anything she asked of him, he withdrew all of his abilities into his core and let Beth fall away, forgotten. He approached and knelt beside Peter, sliding his large, warm hands over her one of hers, frowning protectively at the wounds she'd given it. She ignored the twinge of discomfort as she gave him a small tug, blinking at him reassuringly.

"Knew… you'd come…" she repeated before she drifted off into blackness.

~*~*~

Peter gaped at the tender exchange between the two with stunning clarity. Son of a bitch.

"It is. It's _true_."

"She's not heal- what?"

"Sandra Bennett was right all along. You're in lo-"

"_Don't_," Gabriel growled. "Don't you say it."

"Okay, I won't. I don't really _want_ to. Here – her ability _is_ working, but very slowly. She's still bleeding but her body won't let her die. Just put pressure on this, right here. That's it. I need to work on the other girl."

"What about us?!?"

"Get us out of here!!!"

"Quick – dere's no time!"

Peter ignored the cries of the people in cages across the room, focused on the task at hand, centuries later still a paramedic. He tossed his way through cabinets and drawers until he filled his arms with gauze and various other bandages. He began a thorough but efficient field dressing of the bullet hole in Belinda's stomach.

"Please, dere be more – dey come!"

Stressed and irritated, Gabriel flung his hand behind him, simultaneously prying open the locks on all the cell doors. A small crowd of four hospital-smock-covered people crawled from them, scrambling over each other for a tool that would unlock their inhibitor collars. He didn't withdraw his arm until a lab coat floated from a hook across the room to where it hung itself on his waiting fingers. Lovingly, he covered the woman in his arms, defending her honor and granting her some modesty, wiping the sanguine coating from her face and hair.

A young man appeared at his side, one with strangely orange skin. Gabriel grimaced – this person had probably spent his entire life in a camp, unable to exist as a normal baseline outside their walls. This was likely the first taste of freedom he'd ever had. And Claire was probably the first _naked women_ he'd ever seen. The thought plucked at the strings of his jealous temper. His brows narrowed.

"I can fight, too," the boy warbled uneasily, "we'll have to fight our way out of here."

"No we won't," Peter said as he stood, draping Belinda's arms around his neck to hold her to him. He gestured to her, and stabilized her with one hand. "I have her ability." Extending a finger out in front of him, his eyes swirled over with an odd lavender luminescence. "I think I have to… _draw_ the door… or something."

There was a loud '_pop_' in the middle of the room as the spinning violet portal split the air. Following Peter and the others, Gabriel pulled Claire's diminutive weight to his chest, sliding an arm under her knees and letting her head rest on his shoulder, then he left the scene behind. He pressed her more tightly against him as he stepped out into the bracing chill of the shuttle port.

"This way," Peter called as they crossed the distance to the spacecraft on which they'd ridden earlier. It wouldn't be long until reinforcements realized they were loose somewhere in the Taurus office compound. Climbing inside, Peter nearly doubled over at the rancid odor made by the piles of bodies left behind, now very clearly beginning to decay. "We have to get these cleared out of here…" he groaned through his fingers as he clamped a hand over his mouth.

Gabriel kept at his heels as they wandered toward the cockpit, pulling down two cots from the bulkhead, depositing the women and freeing their arms. Taking a second to smooth the lab coat over Claire's legs, making sure nothing was showing that she wouldn't want seen, he turned to find the orange boy carrying four bodies at a time as if they were no more than buckets of water. He was grateful to find this would go very quickly.

"_He's_ awful strong," he muttered.

"Super-human strength," Peter replied.

One of the other prisoners, a dark-skinned man, left the side of his similarly hued wife to kneel in the middle of the deck, placing his hands on either side of him. "Bacteria lef' behind," he stated with accented speech, when the last body was dumped unceremoniously from the back of the hold, "dese will eat dem." White mushrooms popped up in little, wild clumps, covering the whole floor, doing the job nature intended for them. Gabriel stepped nimbly through their patches until he reached the pilot's area, where he pressed the button that closed the bay door.

"If you can get this hunk of metal out of here," Peter told him, collecting Belinda to him once again, "I can get Olivia to program you new coordinates, get you somewhere safe."

"… you're not -"

"I can't come with you. This one needs immediate medical attention, or she'll die. Plus… if I get caught with you… it'll ruin _everything_ I've worked for."

"I can fly 'er," Gabriel said, nodding, knowing what Peter was relinquishing, understanding what it took.

"The only reason I'm letting you go is because of her, you know that right?" Peter sighed, inclining his head toward Claire. "Because I want her safe. Otherwise…"

"I know -"

"No, you _don't_ know, alright? You have to understand this, _okay_? The _only way_ this is ever going to end is if you _let them catch you_." He stood his ground as he received a grim, hard stare. "I mean, can you do that? _Would_ you?" He then looked away for a moment, rubbing a hand across his aching forehead, choosing the right words. "Look, if you really love her, you'll do it for _her_. Let her stop being a rebel, let her be out of trouble. Let her stop running. Let her just _live_. Whether she wants to or not."

Gabriel closed his eyes as he made no effort to deny his feelings, sighing in surrender, facing the truth that Peter was right. The universe had dealt its cards a long time ago, and they'd spent all this time tucked up his sleeves. It was time to put them on the table.

"Alright," he relented, feeling an indescribable weight on his shoulders. "What do I have to do."

"Get these people to safety, then go back to Leo – they're expecting you there. They'll extradite you to Pisces, where they always send the double agents for questioning. That'll get you close to Central Labs." He darted a finger out to Gabriel's temple, and before he could back away he telepathically burned a series of numbers into his memory. "All but the first five will call my fet. The last five are code – they'll tell me it's you and that you're in position. Message me when you get to Leo."

Gabriel nodded before adding, "242, 12, 39 – Sagittarius."

"Wha-"

"Tell Olivia that's where we need to go."

"But, I don't -"

"Just trust me. _That's_ where we need to go."

"Okay -"

The instant the word left his mouth the transport ship rocked wildly, shockwaves crawling up her hull as the magnetic force underneath her became momentarily unstable. The married couple grasped each other, mouths hanging open in fright, as the orange boy kept the fourth – a tall, older woman – from falling over. Peter and Gabriel whipped around to face the viewport just as snapping, crackling electric red netting coated her surface, and beyond they could see a swarm of black suits running to encircle the ship.

"Oh god," the older woman cried, "how are we going to get out of here…"

"You should go," Gabriel directed, turning to Peter. "I can fly her."

"But what about the nets -"

"_I will make her fly_. Go!"

Without another word, Peter turned on his heels and disappeared with Belinda through a twisting purple hole.

"Everybody hold on," Gabriel directed as he turned to address the others, whispers of the past echoing between his ears of a time when he'd made a vehicle fly across a giant hole in the road, or landed a shuttlecraft on its nose. He jabbed a hand out beside him, flexing only a small part of his power to pry open the hangar doors to prepare for their exodus. This was going to hurt a lot.

He moved to the middle of the craft, shutting out all ambient sound including the nervous fretting of his passengers and the blasts pitting the surface of the hull. He closed his eyes, filled his lungs, and exhaled slowly, spreading his fingers wide, wrapping his mind around the entirety of the transport vehicle. Once he felt it was firmly and confidently in his grasp… he lifted.

At first the craft wouldn't budge, held securely in place by the devilishly sticky nets. He flicked an index finger and depressed a button on the pilot's console, one that corresponded with the power of the magnets underneath his feet, relying on their power to give him a little boost. Straining against her bonds, the ship rose slowly, a few inches at a time.

"Pull you bitch… _pull_…" Gabriel groaned. "Come on… _PULL_…" He ground his teeth together, clenched his fingers into fists, and heaved, sweat dotting his brow.

"We're… we're _moving_…" the boy whispered from across the galaxy.

"You can do it…"

"I wish dere was somet'ing I could do to help…"

He was tired. The transport was so heavy. There was so far to go. Had to get her to orbit. Once they escaped the gravity of the planet her drives would kick on and take over and the programmed coordinates would do the rest… He tugged against her weight, the muscles in his arms flexing… pain lanced through his head like a white hot knife. He was panting for breath as the ship made it through the hangar doors, jammed open wide despite the Feds' best efforts to override their circuitry and close them.

"Ungh!" He dropped to one knee when the first ground missile struck her, deflected by the telekinetic shield he absolutely _would not drop_ – the one that encompassed her, lifting her to safety. "Fuck you, you assholes – you are _not_ gonna take us alive!!!"

He felt the dark-skinned woman's presence at the back of his neck for a split second before he felt her enter his mind. He was stretched to his limit already, he was defenseless against her entry.

"I can help," she whispered to him, "show me where de guns be." He let a brief image of their controls flash through his mind before he cinched his grip tightly around the ship once again. After that she was gone, and mercifully he was bombarded no more.

"Arrrrrghhh!!!" he wailed, struggling against the oppressive pressure of several miles of atmosphere, doing its best to seal them onto the planet's surface like thick plastic wrap. He pulled his chin to his chest, his eyes secreting tears of exertion, his lungs heaving in harsh heavy rasps. With the last of his strength, he cried out and slowly lifted his arms as the transport rocketed through layers of air and friction to burst into the forgiving stillness of the vacuum of space. Immediately the ship shuddered as the drives roared to life, spooling up energy to create the tesseract that eventually sent them away, disappearing into velvety black star-studded safety.

In the deafening silence, Gabriel swayed alarmingly on his feet, blood pouring from both nostrils. The two other men reached him just as he collapsed face-first toward the deck in exhaustion.

"Arturo," the dark-skinned woman called to her husband as she pointed to Claire, "dat girl dere, I seen it in his mind, she be his mate. Put him dere wit' her."

~*~*~

One thing he'd learned after centuries of life was that regaining consciousness often was a slow process. Before he opened his eyes, he was immediately aware of something heavy and blunt, most likely a _knee_, resting precariously close to his groin. He jerked reflexively at the middle, trying to give his soft parts a buffer zone, causing her to stir. Her fingers twitched at his ribs, tickling him and drawing his attention to the slender arm draped across his middle, and her breath warmed the erogenous crook of his neck. He twisted his head a little at the contact, gifting a greater expanse of sensitive skin to the mouth that expelled that air, craving it. His left hand moved on its own, involuntarily exploring, starting with the object that threatened to crush his already swelling and hardening male organ. The skin was hot and smooth as it slid against him, straightening to entwine and ankle with his. She rolled against him, the subtle movement drawing his hand up against the curve of her delicate hip bone, across the lightly perspiring small of her back, in the dip of her spine, and his heart started racing, until the thought crossed his mind that this person was quite naked underneath this…

His eyes shot open. They were met with Claire's openly yawning face, pulling her arm away from him to draw it across her sleepy eyes. Reality crashed around him, reminding him _exactly_ what he had been doing and _who_ he had just been doing it _with_.

"_HOLY SHIT_!" he yelled, waking up the entire ship as he flung himself backwards, making a huge production out of rolling off the cot to land with a loud thud on his head. "Claire, I'm _sorry_, I didn't -"

"What's going on?"

"He woke up in bed with me and he's freaking out."

"I didn't do it on purpose -"

"We t'ought you were together."

"You know, I'm getting a little _sick_ of -"

"We get that all the time, it's okay."

"You are _not_ helping -"

"It's okay, everyone, it's a long flight, go back to sleep. Nothing more to see here, the situation is under control. Gabriel, come here."

He gaped at her as if it were some sort of cruel trick. He eyeballed all the _unoccupied_ cots that were still tucked neatly against the bulkhead… although admittedly they weren't near as warm…

"Come _here_."

He was helpless not to obey her. He stood and brushed himself off, black suit shamelessly clinging to the final remnants of the burgeoning erection he'd previously had, and he timidly rested one thigh on the thin, militia-grade mattress.

"Oh for shit's sake, _lie down_, you retard. Where I can _reach_ you – you've got blood all over your face." He sighed and acquiesced to her demand.

On his way in, he met her eye. She was clammy and flushed, and he remembered how blazing hot her skin had felt. He caught her hand as a glistening, saliva-coated thumb was thrust with purpose toward his right cheek.

"You're sick," he muttered, brow furrowing in concern.

"It's not _that_ gross, unless you've got wet-wipes in that suit stashed somewhere I don't wanna know…"

"No, no… you're _ill_."

"Oh, _that_. Well, I almost _died_, right? It's not the first time. I've got some infection, is all. I'll manage."

"But… your -"

"I _know_ – they did something to me that slowed my ability down. It's coming back though, just gonna take a little time, is all. I'm _fine_. Now, shut up and let me get this off of you."

He held onto her wrist as she commenced her gentle assault on his face, and he felt it tremble.

"You're shivering."

"I'm cold," she admitted without lessening her pace. "Been a long time since I've been _cold_."

He employed a little more force, pulling her hand away. He stared straight into her… and she returned it equally. They held each other transfixed for a few achingly silent moments.

"I'll keep you warm," he finally whispered to her, wishing to keep their conversation private, agreeing to share the cot with her.

"Okay."

"C'mere." He pulled her to him, her frame matching his, tucking her head under his chin, rubbing slow, lazy, warm circles between her shoulder blades. She placed her hand on his chest, watching it rise and fall with his breath, listening to the lullaby of his beating heart.

"I'm sorry about Beth."

Her lie caused him to twist his spine a little, although it wasn't entirely uncomfortable.

"No you're not."

She huffed a breathy laugh.

"Okay, I'm sorry she _hurt_ you."

She was telling the truth. He couldn't summon an immediate response. His wits had been addled by the scent of her hair and the heat of her fingertips. Picturing the red-head's face, however, still twisted a knife in his gut, and he really didn't appreciate the reminder. He felt ashamed, embarrassed. Feeling a sudden need to draw into himself and sever the contact, he rolled away from her, but she didn't remove her arm. She brought her hand up to cup around the ball of his shoulder, and she tucked her knees into the back of his.

"You know what the really sick thing is?" he asked into the night. "My partner, Mike, told me that I should've known something was wrong the whole time… and I _did_. I knew the _whole time_. But I wanted to believe it so badly that I physically turned that part of me off." He tilted his chin over his shoulder toward her. "Do you know what that means, Claire? I lied to _myself_. What the fuck is _wrong_ with me?"

"Oh, there's a _billion_ things _WRONG_ with you, do _NOT_ get me started… but that's not one of them," she said, caressing his smooth musculature. "I've done that to myself at least _twice_ now. It just means you're human, Gabe – you need what everyone else does, and there's good and bad in everybody. Human beings _lie_ sometimes, it's a part of nature. But you're gonna live, okay? No matter how much you beat yourself up over it, and I _know_ you will, you're gonna keep on living. It's gonna be alright."

"I know."

"Besides, I'm glad she's gone," she told him, jerking his body with a quick hug. "It's kinda hard for everything to be _all about meee_ when you're obsessing over some other girl." His shoulders jiggled with quiet laughter. "And I clocked her a good one for you too, you should've seen it. No slimy little red-headed bitch is gonna jack with _my_ buddy," she squeezed him again, "not on _my_ watch."

A hopeful little piece of him clung to the possessiveness in her voice. She had no idea how much he belonged to her. He reached up and took her hand, grateful for the opportunity to be this close.

"Thanks for keeping me warm," she hummed, mashing and rubbing her face back and forth against his back.

"Don't mention it. Shouldn't we be spooning the other way?"

"No, this is perfect, don't move – keeps my nose warm. _That_ gets cold, _everything_ gets cold. Besides, this way we're both spared the pain of you jabbing me with your dick first thing in the morning -"

"_OH MY GOD_."

"Like I've never been _married_ before or something. I'm not a virgin, buddy, I know a thing or two about peni-"

"_Please_ stop."

She dissolved into a fit of giggles while his face burned holy hellfire. Eventually, over the course of several yawning minutes, her arm grew limp and heavy, rolling down to rest at his waist. He threaded his fingers into hers, toasty warm and luxuriously comfortable regardless of their bedding's poor quality, allowing himself to finally fall into a deep, contented, dreamless sleep.

~*~*~

A tickle – not much more than a whisper or a breath between her eyebrows – roused her. She opened her eyes to find his staring back at her, warm like sunbathing mahogany. They were perched at the edge of the mattress between his fingertips – he was kneeling and obviously very excited about something. He exuberated a boyish gleam, humming with energy, putting dimples in his cheeks.

"I have something to show you," he breathed. The fact that he was so quiet told her the others were still asleep, this secret treasure was meant for them to share alone. Feeling strangely romanced, she soundlessly extracted herself from the coarse standard issue blanket and dropped her feet to the deck, which he had been considerate enough to warm by diverting a little power to the heating coils that lay underneath. The cabin was comfortable.

She padded behind him to the viewport where the air was snatched from her lungs in awe. She'd seen planets before, but _this_ one…

"Where are we," she muttered, unable to tear her eyes from the swirling sphere of cerulean, lavender, veridian, and white. He leaned in front of her to make a few keystrokes, summoning a small holo-display that stated their coordinates and pictured map of their location on a larger star chart.

"That… is that _Sagittarius_…?"

He mischievously smiled his answer.

"But… but it was _destroyed_…"

"Well, that's the _thing_, right? That material, from _Leo_, used in the bomb that blew this place up? Apparently, when it mixed with the toxic atmosphere in the blast, it created a nasty substance that coated, like, flippin' _everything_ in the dome generator. It's gonna take a lot to clean up that mess… which is a real shame. Claire, _billionaires_ lived here. Movie stars, plastic surgeons, you name it. Everything down there was left exactly like it was when they left -"

"Which means they're gonna try to come back and claim it," she interjected nervously.

"They'd be crazy _not_ to, _sure_… if the feds didn't believe this place was completely untouchable until that stuff reaches its half-life… _two hundred years_ from now…"

She whipped around to gape at him, desperately wanting to believe she understood him correctly. "How…"

"I may or may not have filed that in my report while I was here… '_investigating_'. Or sabotaging their efforts to fix the dome. Whatever."

"But they know you now… they're gonna know it was you, that it was _fake_…"

"I suppose they _might_… if I wasn't a _completely_ different agent at the time with a _completely_ different name. _OH_ – and a _completely_ different face with a _completely_ different set of fingerprints. They guy who filed that report looked an awful lot like Nathan Petrelli…"

"But… these people," she tossed a thumb behind her, "aren't gonna be able to breathe down there… let alone anything _else_… unless you think you can fix that dome…"

"Claire," he chided smugly, "I can fix _anything_."

"Then that means -"

"It _means_ that they _are_ eventually going to come for this place. I mean, you haven't even seen it yet, but when you do you'll know why. I always wanted to come back here," he grinned and turned to appreciate serenely revolving sphere's celestial majesty, her reflection lighting his eyes. "You and I may end up having to fight for this place someday, but these people," he gestured to their sleeping forms, "They'll all be able to live out the rest of their lives in peace."

"_You_," Claire hissed as she captured his face in her hands, "are absolutely _brilliant_!"

"Well," he chuckled, "I've always been a schemer, I suppose…"

Twisting back around, tears of joy flooding her eyes, trembling fingertips pinching her lips, she soaked in the vision of her new home – a _real_ home, the first one she'd had in centuries.

"Wait'll you see it, Claire, you won't believe it. It's Paradise."

**A/N #2: Does anyone remember the prologue from Vol1? Like, the VERY FIRST chapter? The beach they were on??? Well, folks, guess where we are... =D**


	13. 13 Confessions and Constellations

**A/N: 1) I apologize for the delay, folks! My hubby had a medical procedure that ended up being way more complicated than it needed to be and I discovered I missed my calling as a nursemaid, 2) I don't know what this recent fascination with longwindedness is... yet another rambling long chapter, and 3) Sylaire fans I have ONE word for you: ENJOY. Your day has come. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it =D  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**13) Confessions and Constellations**

There it was, that smile. That fickle, vexing thing that toyed with his heart like the finger she twisted through a stray lock of her feathery golden hair. He watched them all, crowded around the viewport, sipping canteens and munching on stocked rations, while he scrubbed himself down in the decontamination unit. A couple jabbed surprised fingers at the plexi-cement, a levee protecting them from the toxic gases that comprised the planet's swirling iridescent clouds, when a large colorful creature swooped through the air, gracefully navigating the thick knot of snaking, palm-like trees that dipped lazily down to the beach. He'd managed to land the transport to where it precariously teetered on a precipice overlooking the rolling azure sea, nestled against the house that contained the dome generator. Adjacent was an ornamental lighthouse that served no real purpose other than to look pretty or beacon ancient civilian yachts. Eyes raking the landscape and pink mouth excitedly working a mile a minute, she freely bestowed upon the surrounding relative strangers the very same warm, sunny, affable smile she'd worn for centuries... for everyone but him. Despite her sweet words and the way her hand had warmed his side while he slept, despite the weight of the years they'd shared together, despite the private knowledge they kept secret for each other, she'd never looked at him with anything other than a mixture of thin patience, skepticism, and hesitance, more recently mollified with a newer additive of respected friendship. But she _would_ turn her face to him on more than seldom occasion, and she wasn't afraid to touch him. He took what he could get.

Certain he was clean, including the khaki shorts and t-shirt he'd managed to scavenge from inside the house, he re-entered the cabin and padded barefoot across the metal deck in search of a canteen for himself, throat chafed with thirst. The environment inside the shuttle was at least twenty degrees cooler than the ambient temperature outside – he sat, leaned back, and rested the bottle against his forehead, letting it draw the heat away from him, spreading a thin sheen of sweat across his sand-speckled skin. When her lab coat brushed against his bare knee, snaring his attention, he opened his eyes. She cocked her hip in front of him in her little white mini-dress, holding up a foil package with exuberant mock interest.

"Mmm mmm! Meatloaf! Hungry, muscleman?" He loved it when she called him little pet names… ones that weren't '_psycho_', '_dickhead_', or '_murderous bastard_'. "Just add water! Or, if you prefer," she dug in one of the pockets at her waist while he greedily gulped at the jug in his hands, "I have some cashews. I was thinkin' of saving them for later, but you can have them." Anticipating his answer, she pulled the package open and wafted them under his nose enticingly, earning her one of his rare, shy smiles. She had _no idea_ how many things she could offer him that he wanted – some badly – but her _nuts_ weren't exactly on the… oh man, they were dry roasted??? _Dude!_ He snatched them away and popped a few in his mouth, his belly beginning to painfully remind him how long ago he'd last eaten.

"Beware any hand that comes between a starving man and pretty girls bearing gifts," she sang. "So what's the scoop?" Her butt landed hard beside him and she swung her feet. "You want some help in there? You look tired."

"I'd rather make sure you're -"

"Oh my gosh I'm _fine_. Look - all of my holes are gone, I don't have any more fever, my ability is _working_. A little _toxic air_ isn't gonna hurt me any more than it hurts you and the faster we get that thing up and running the faster we get off this _ship_. I'm going crazy!"

"Leave da man alone," the dark woman, Louisa, teased from where she sat perched on her husband's lap. "Let him have a break, he's earned it."

And there it was again, that… _look_. The grim reminder that he had so much left to earn. Belying her eyes, she took his canteen from between his listless fingers and tipped hers to it, replenishing the amount that he'd drunk. "I could be a good grease monkey," she murmured, not giving up. Instantly he pictured her with big ears and tons of fur… sometimes he hated how his brain worked.

"Alright, alright… gimme a few minutes and you can come."

A short while later, feeling slightly rejuvenated, she followed him out into the open.

"Oh wow…" she immediately gasped, finally able to take in the full panorama beyond what the meager viewport offered. "It tingles," she commented as a poisonous wave of sea breeze tossed her hair about her shoulders. She giggled like a little girl and spun a slow circle as he gained some distance on her, stalking back toward the house with his mind on the task at hand. She jogged to catch up when he held the door open for her. Whispers from the sand she kicked off her feet echoed in the glassy, sunlit foyer and her body stopped, blocking his entrance, as she stood enchanted by the palatial expanse before her.

"Oh my god, this place is _huge_…"

"I told you… movie stars and surgeons, hot shot lawyers, _football players_… you name it."

"Wow…" her exhalation reverberated back to her. He pushed her forward by her shoulders, careful not to let her stumble while she craned her neck to stare at a crystalline chandelier glittering miniature rainbows down the hallway. "Ooo stairs!" she cried as she tore off in the direction of the second level, its railings lined the entire length with polished oak (which, contrary to the commonly held belief in the twentieth century, would _not_ grow anywhere). So much for his afternoon help… As he reached the door leading down to the generator control room and beyond into the physical drives themselves he heard her muffled gasp drift down to him from upstairs. "Look at the size of that _shower_! Gabriel, _look_! Clothes – _girl_ clothes!!!"

~*~*~

His toe couldn't heal fast enough. He'd been the nucleus in a cloud of telekinetically suspended parts – some of them impressively large and _heavy_– when she'd finally found her way down to where he was… and they plummeted from the sky upon her arrival to land, unfortunately, wherever they would. His jaw was somewhere down there with them.

"I tried on all kinds of stuff," she reasoned, "but I didn't want to get anything dirty so I figured this was more appropriate."

"Uhh… umm…. Mhmm…?" was all he could manage, smearing a grease-covered hand nervously across the back of his neck. What he'd _wanted_ to say was, '_Bikinis like that are only appropriate for porn, Claire._'

"This thing still probably cost, like, a few thousand smackers, though… but hey, when we're done I'm _totally_ hitting the beach!" she continued as if he weren't even there, fighting to keep from assaulting her with his eyes. "So! What do you want me to do?" _Oh no.. she did not just ask that._ His mind whirled with all the _positions_… "I can clean – got any harsh chemicals that'll threaten to rend me skinless?" _Nope, just the kind that'll eat off what little cloth is covering you…_

"Here," he said instead, still limping while she reveled in his discomfort. He handed her a rag and a pot of emollient, indicating the detritus littered around his feet. "Help me with these."

"So," she began, her breasts swaying hypnotically as she rubbed vigorous circles into the piece of machinery currently smudging stains against her pale thighs, fixed Indian-style as she sat. "These people just _left_ – left everything behind as it was… I mean, there was still fresh wax in the depilatation unit," as proof, she straightened a silky smooth leg, pushing the swell of her calf just a bit too close.

"Yeah, the place got so blighted," he replied, smiling and nodding at the twirling ankle, using two fingertips to push it back into place, "not even bacteria could flourish. There was no warning – these people had to leave immediately or die."

"This _whole colony_ was left… exactly as it was… _preserved_…"

"Pretty much."

"So… the countryside is just _littered_ with crazy big mansions exactly like this one… waiting for people to live in them…? That's almost too difficult to believe."

"Mhmm. This one's _mine_ though, unless someone else wants to take a stab at maintaining the dome generator."

"I could be your neighbor," she grinned as she used her small fingers to dig into a crease that Gabriel would've missed.

"You could – hey Little Miss Tiny Fingers, can you get down in this hole? Here?"

"Yup." She leaned closer, following his line of sight, letting her freshly showered scent of roses and lilac crawl into his head. Intoxicated, he heard her murmur, "we wouldn't have to say goodbye anymore."

And then the memory of the conversation he'd had with Peter slapped him out of his stupor.

"I could take care of the lighthouse for you. OH! I could be _Isis_!" she gasped before going on, arching an arm over her head dramatically. "Patron goddess of sailors, Protector of Lost Children, Keeper of the Light…"

Gabriel didn't mention that Isis was the sister Osiris married. He suspected, from the way she suddenly let her recitation drop, that she might've already known. But then she was looking at him… his face had betrayed him.

"What's wrong."

His hands wrung the putrefied shank of cloth he'd been using into tight twists. A tiny spark of anger lit her features reminding him once again exactly who he was speaking to.

"You're not gonna stay, are you."

"I can't, Claire."

Her face clouded over with forced indifference as she shrugged and made herself impassively turn away, but her fingers ground against the metal with a tad more fury. She nodded slowly, silently acknowledging what he'd said. She breathed a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, I'm sure there're better places than even _this_ out there in the cosmos," she ground out sarcastically.

"And since when have you ever _really_ wanted me around?" he slipped, his mouth working faster than his addled brain. It was too late, he couldn't take it back. She didn't answer, setting aside one finished piece and reaching for another, carrying on with their work. "This fight isn't finished," he continued, "and your _uncle_ has a plan… a plan that can end this for a lot of people, and -"

"I barely even got to see him!"

"I know, but -"

"I'm coming with you."

"You _can't_, Claire – I can't let them get you and Peter would _kill_ me… or at least do his best. And truthfully I'd probably let him. I couldn't live with it if something happened." He knelt before her, pleading for her understanding. "Claire… this has to be done, I have to do it. And not just for _them_," he pulled his hands into his chest, "I need to do it for _me_. It _means_ something to me."

Slightly defrosted she returned her gaze, eyeing him closely as he stared her down.

"Where are you going?"

"You won't like -"

"_Just tell me._"

"Back to Leo. They'll arrest me and take me to Pisces where Peter's gonna get me into the Central Labs."

"Why -"

"Because I'm the only living survivor of the Shanti virus. Because my blood carries the key to freeing people like us across the galaxy. Claire, this is -"

"What if they kill you?" she interjected, emptying her lap and letting its abandoned contents roll haphazardly away as she straightened to her knees, jutting her face toward him in challenge. "This isn't like prison, Gabe – they're not coming after you with handcuffs and a prayer. These people can _end_ you." He took a gamble and reached for her, knowing he wasn't always so good at reading her, but was encouraged when she didn't pull away. He slid his hand against the warmth of her neck, threading his fingers into her downy hair.

"Then, I'll die happy knowing you're safe."

Her soul reached through her eyes and captured him, holding him steadfast as she fumed. Then she ripped herself away, severing the contact and leaving him mildly bereft, and grabbed the metal hunk that she'd lost, resuming her task.

"Once we get this finished," she mumbled darkly, "how long will it take until it's safe for the people to leave the ship?"

"It depends on how far I can get the dome to extend – probably just little at first, there's a lot more to be repaired in here, I mean, it _blew up_. But if I can get it to cover a few miles, and on down to the beach, probably a few hours. We'll need to clean up inside the house, though… so even if they _could_ breathe the air, they'd probably still be camping out on the beach or sleeping in the transport."

"That's fine, I think they just want to stretch their legs."

They both knew what she was _really_ asking. She wanted to know how much time they had left together.

~*~*~

Louisa thought perhaps this Paradise planet was bigger than the one on which she'd spent most of her life. It felt like days had passed since the dome had finally split the sky with one big pink shimmering wave, and subsequently a sufficient amount of time had been spent afterwards filtering the air, making it safe for human consumption. Despite the lengthy events that had occurred, the massive orange sun was at last finally conceding to lower its thirsty lips to the wet ocean horizon.

"I like dis place," she cooed contentedly.

"Who _doesn't_," responded Kelly, the older woman who'd escaped with them. She possessed the power of x-ray vision, and had spent her life as a doctor in the camps and out on work release. That didn't keep her from losing her husband, however, three relative years ago.

"No," Louisa continued, raising a rubber-gloved hand to ensure her makeshift mask was still covering an ample portion of her face, the cloth of the handkerchief still stuffed under safety goggles that had been procured from the generator room. "Dis planet know da meaning of _siesta_. Humans will need to nap wi' _dese_ long days."

"Just keeps getting better and better."

It had been the first time their third companion, the eternally youthful blonde, had spoken since she'd left the transport earlier that day. Obviously an unpleasant exchange had happened somewhere. As Louisa and Kelly worked on detoxifying the countertops and other surfaces in the cavernous kitchen, Claire stood at the sink washing every pot, pan, dish, or utensil they could possibly find. She rested her weight on one leg while the opposite ankle crossed behind, her body language gloomy as she gazed out the window at the object of her dissatisfaction, watching him and the other men drag large pieces of furniture out into the sandy yard to be rid of their contagion in the open air.

"So much work to do," Kelly hummed with happy, useful energy.

Louisa remembered the last time _she'd_ looked at a man like that. Arturo had been a rebel placement in her camp, working as part of a quiet underground network smuggling scavenged supplies in and attempting to move people _out_. While fundamentally she'd appreciated what he was trying to do, she wholly rejected his affection for her – he was nothing but trouble and was going to get her killed.

He'd come to her one night, serenading the tiny square window of her little uniform shack (one that paled in size compared to the series of glass panes that illuminated the kitchen), sending faintly glowing morning glories creeping up her walls using the same hands that had just come from digging perilous tunnels under the force dome, scoured by huge invasive tubers. In the end, she'd been reluctantly charmed by his exotic ability and his lovely face, for who was he really if he wasn't first a _man_… a man in love? And she hated him for it, hated how he made her feel against her better judgment… until she married him. While she'd secretly dreamed of a life outside the camp, she'd been at peace where she was, unbothered and risk-free, until he'd uprooted her like the trees and other plants that he bent to his awesome will. Despite the telepathic ability she commanded, that showed her _all_ hidden things, it was plain for anyone to see that the contempt and frustration lining Claire's face was only born from something far more profound. Perhaps she still failed to realize it. Maybe she needed a little nudge.

"You are angry wit' him." She couldn't help herself.

The girl sighed as she sloshed a tiny bit of water on her feet at his mention. Louisa smiled broadly, finding few things as engaging as a woman so obviously eaten alive inside by the mere thought of a man.

"He aims to go somewhere… do something that _needs_ to be done, but I _wish_…"

"Hmmm, I see," Louisa mothered. "So. You gonna tell him how you feel for him _before_ he leave?"

Claire dropped her washcloth heavily into the water and spun around, her mouth drawn in a menacing line and her eyes flashing dangerously. Louisa had seen her fair share of fierce women since she'd met Arturo, this was just one more. And the girl was only mad at herself. Kelly giggled knowingly off to the side, fascinated by the conversation, having seen a thing or two in her time as well.

"And the plot thickens!"

Slowly Claire's shoulders dropped as she relaxed, feeling more exposed than angry, and uncomfortable having to face a truth she'd been denying for who knew how long. She lifted a wet hand and let it slap against her thigh.

"He's just out of a relationship… he's on a pretty big rebound – he's got a lot going on right now, and so do I. Besides…" she turned to peek at him one more time, "he's my _best friend_. He's all I've got."

"Hmph," Louisa chuckled, mystified how someone could live for centuries and still manage to be so utterly clueless, "an' dat's exactly why I _married_ mine."

"Me too," Kelly supported, a still-fresh sorrow nailing her eyes to the marble she was scrubbing. "Tell him, girl. Tell him before it's _too late_. If you're scared for him, hold him to you while you still can."

The room grew quiet as Claire paled, turning back to her sink.

~*~*~

The girl's demeanor improved greatly after she'd been forced to acknowledge the conflict that brewed within her. It had been cathartic, almost. It must've been close to mealtime, she and Kelly had been prattling on excitedly about sandwiches for far too long while agitating the blankets in the soapy water with the table legs they'd procured. The rest of the table was outside with some other furnishings that would never see much use, busted into kindling, a fraction of which was currently roasting in a blazing bonfire. Lines had been drawn through the trees near its functional heat, bowing under the weight of wet bedding making valiant efforts to dry. The attempts came too late for one man, however – one who had been working continuously since before the sun had risen what felt like ages ago, and was face down in the grass-patched sand, fortunately a safe distance from the flickering embers, taking what he'd thought would be just a _short_ respite. In truth, his exhaustion had claimed him nearly an hour ago.

Louisa could understand why someone like Claire would find him attractive. His frame was long and lithe, he had strong shoulders, and his eyes told stories of a quick wit with unparalleled intelligence. On top of _that_, he was incredibly powerful, and just as immortal as she was.

He jerked awake when she accidentally dragged a few drips of chilly water over his right leg, on her way to drape another quilt over a tautly pulled piece of twine. A blue spark rolled off of his arm to fizzle out in the flames.

"I'm sorry, hun," she hushed, "go back to sleep."

Groaning, he disobeyed and pulled his chest to his knees, twisting his spine to work out the kinks.

"You need your strength," she chastised. "I hope, for _her_ sake, it keeps you safe wherever you be headed off to."

"You've been talking to _Claire_," he breathed.

"I have. You plague her, d'you know dat?"

His laugh echoed in the stillness, disrupting the steady stream of smoke twirling into the stars.

"You have _no idea_ how much."

"So be _careful_ wit' her. A love like dat don't come along every day."

"Oh god not you too…" His face landed in his palm with a smack.

"What? You bot' live forever. She is female. You are _male_. You _like_ each other. I don't understand -"

"No, you _don't_. You don't understand at all. That girl doesn't see me the same way she sees all of you." He rose to his feet, brushing away the clinging sand. He stopped abruptly when a finger was jabbed in his face.

"I am a telepath. You mus' believe when I say you are looking but you do not _SEE_. She does not look at you de same _because_," she wiggled the finger, "de face she has for you she shares wit' _no one else_. She look at you wit' kinship, respect, and pride because you are _special_ to her above all others."

"Look," he warned, his precarious temper flaring, "I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but there's a lot _you're_ not seeing, _telepath_. There's over four hundred years of memories to pour through up here," he tapped at his temple. "You don't know _anything_ about that girl and you don't know _anything_ about me. You don't know _anything_ about our history – where we've come from, things we did – _any_ of it. Would you believe me if I told you I used to be a _really bad guy_?" he snarled, taking a step closer. He'd had all he could take. "What if I told you I'd killed people, long ago? What if I told you I've spent _centuries_ in repentance? What if I'd killed people she loved? What if I'd attacked her, tortured her, _horrified_ her?!? What if that girl could never forgive me?!? She _should_ never forgive me! And I'm not asking for it! Alright? I just want to be left alone!!!"

His last shout drifted off across the sea, leaving behind an awkward, apologetic silence.

"I know that this place holds promise, believe me, I felt it the first time I was here," he continued, eager to fill the void, running his fingers through his hair. "I know that you've lived an ugly life and you just want to see something beautiful happen – we _all_ do. But this… this _hurts_, okay? And I know you think it'd help if I confessed something to her, but I _can't_." He paused. "I cannot _ever_ love that girl because she cannot _ever_ love me. And that's… just the way it is."

"But you _do_…" she whispered to the air as she watched him turn and walk away. He headed into the house, presumably in the direction of the generator chamber to put in more tiresome hours of distracting work. She hung her head and shook it.

'_You poor fools…_'

~*~*~

Gabriel found the generator drives to be moderately complex, but from his frame of reference manageable if he kept a cheat sheet. Apparently for anyone else, however, they were flippin' _rocket science_. He had been repetitively grinding through the process of showing Arturo and Jesse, the orange strongman (whom he had developed a nasty habit of calling '_Carrots_'), how to recalibrate the mechanisms should any disasters occur, and how to perform regular maintenance that would keep them sustained should something happen to him and he never return. He was beginning to clench his teeth in impatient irritation at their lack of comprehension when Louisa's voice rained down upon them from the heavens announcing the blessed arrival of another mealtime. Apparently the ladies had run a large pot of water through the environmental system on board the transport before shoving it into the fire to boil. From there they'd scavenged every packet of dehydrated beef stew they could find. Admittedly, as he followed his fleeing students up the staircase toward the exit that led to the lawn, something did smell awfully good and at this point he wasn't terribly picky. In the morning they would run tests to see if cooking the food left behind in the solar-powered freezer units would mitigate its toxicity, but for now he was just happy to have something in his belly.

Or he would've been if it wasn't upset. And he wouldn't have felt so tired if his shoulders weren't so tight and he didn't have this throbbing headache. And he'd have been in a better mood if he wasn't so…

_Tense_. He was _tense_. He had been since he left Leo.

He spooned his dinner blandly, compartmentalizing and cataloguing his racing mind. At the very root of the knot binding the muscles in his back was _anxiety_. He was scared of facing the Feds. He was scared of saying goodbye to Claire, scared of hurting her. He was afraid she was right, and he was walking blindfolded straight into a hangman's noose like a fatalistic moron. He was afraid of _failing_. He was afraid that everyone would hate him if he did.

_Ostracize_ him.

And on the heels of that particular revelation buzzed something… else. Having lost his appetite, he set down his bowl , sinking it into the sand, completely disinterested. His breath hitching in his throat, he lifted his eyes, surveying the party encircling the fire, nests made in toasted-dry bedding, winding down for the night smiling and talking and telling stories and laughing. He was supposed to _belong_ here… like he _belonged_ on Cancer… and that had all been a _lie_. But that wasn't all. These people were all _mods_.

They all had… _abilities_.

He tried not to think about it, but it was too late. His skin was already crawling and his hands had already balled into fists at his side. A terrible, familiar itch was already creeping up the back of his throat, spreading a taste to his tongue that he craved desperately. His vision was beginning to blur at the edges as his pupils started to dilate and he knew he was in trouble – _everyone_ was in trouble. Sylar was surrounded by his vice and was rapidly losing control.

"Lifting that whole ship must've been hard," he heard someone at his side. He turned to look – it was Carrots. "You did that with your _mind_?"

This kid could've lifted it with his _hands_, could've _flung_ it into space. Distantly, he felt his legs straighten as he stood, unsteadily bearing his weight. A perplexed expression flitted over the boy's face as his shadow fell across him. On the other side of the fire he heard Claire's conversation drop before everything was drowned by the sound of Jesse's deliciously firing synapses. Super-human strength, it was written in code, pulsing down circuitous pathways with every heartbeat, every breath. All he had to do was open it up…

He stumbled backwards, kicking sand into Arturo's lap.

"Hey -"

"Dude, are you… alright? You look a little -"

"Leave him alone," Claire directed. He wasn't sure who she was referring to. He didn't stay to find out. Pale and clammy, shaking with need, he made a hasty escape rushing away down the beach. Before he got too far he heard Claire explain, "not everyone is born with a _fun_ ability – give him some time."

He sat for a long while, worshipping the ghostly glow of the planet's closest moon with his bare toes near enough to the water's edge that they made pits in the moistened sand, consoling Sylar and soothing his hunger. He didn't acknowledge her approach, even as he heard the whispery hush of the silky drape in which she'd chosen to wrap herself, brushing against her thighs with every step. He'd picked up her scent on the breeze before that. She came to a stop beside him, choosing to remain standing . He tilted his eyes up at her, watching her cast her gaze out over the endlessly rolling moonlit sea. A teasing wind tossed a lock of hair into her eyes; her cloak shifted as she reached for it, exposing a small, soft shoulder. It made his mouth water.

"No one's afraid of you," she told him with conviction. "It's okay. Don't let it eat you up, Gabe, it's gonna take time -"

"_Fuck_, Claire, it's been -"

"A _LOT_ of time. These people _still love_ you. They'll give you what you need."

His mouth dried up just as easily. The only response she received was a heavy, lamenting sigh. She folded herself down to finally sit beside him, wrapping the cloth around her knees. She bumped up against him in an unsuccessful effort to get him to lighten up before she stared at him, making him squirm with disquiet. He rested his forehead on his arms, trying to avoid her meticulous scrutiny. He looked tired. Truly tired, and not in that _oh-I-didn't-get-a-good-night's-sleep-last-night_ kind of way, but in the _I've-been-running-for-400-years-looking-for-answers-to-my-questions-only-to-come-to-the-conclusion-that-some-questions-don't-have-answers-and-I-really-wish-I-didn't-know-what-I-know-now_ kind of way.

"Hmm," her breath captured his attention, "I wonder if anyone's named any of these constellations yet." She had tipped back her head, letting her hair cascade over the length of her spine to sweep gossamer strands across the wet granules beneath her, and lifted her lashes to her brows as she took in the sky.

"Officially? Probably. Unofficially? I'm sure there's millions of 'em."

"See that one?" she pointed, leaning close so he could follow her finger, letting her cherished proximity tickle his skin.

"Looks like a box?"

"Yeah, that's the one! With the really bright star -"

"I think that's another planet -"

"I name thee '_Toaster_'."

"… '_Toaster_'…?"

"Sure, I mean, it's square, and -"

"Claire, lots of things are _square_, like some books and… _and_…"

"Boxes, right. Neither of which make good constellation names. Not like '_Toaster_'."

He smiled in spite of himself, feeling a bit more relaxed.

"Ooo, and see that one? Over there – like a small triangle?"

"You're really going for the basic polygons tonight, aren't you -"

"'_Ice Cream Cone_'."

"Nope – '_Clown Hat_'."

"Gabe, clowns are scary. They scare people. Nobody likes clowns."

"They scarier than me…?"

"_Tons_." She paused, squeaking a bit as she suppressed a mirthful giggle. "Unless you started wearing a red rubber nose."

"Are you still mad at me?"

Her laughter subsided at the inappropriate timing of his question, and air passed through her nose as she kept her eyes in the heavens.

"Of course I am, Gabriel. I'm _furious _because I think it's not fair and I'm sad because I think I'm never going to see you again, and I don't want our last conversation to be… the one we had earlier."

He rocked a bit on his hipbones before he asked. "So… you'd miss me."

Dropping her eyes and searching her feet, she pinched a clump of sand that she let drop from her fingers. "_Badly_."

"But… aren't you a widow or something? _Again_? What happened to whats-his-name, your hubby…"

"Jason."

"Yeah, him."

"Oh that, heh…" she shrugged one shoulder. "Don't misunderstand, he _did_ pass not long ago, he was eighty-six… but I'm not his widow. We, uh…" she waved a dismissive hand, "… we divorced a long time ago."

"Oh… I'm sorry to hear that." No he wasn't. "What happened?"

She inclined her forehead to him in an expression that seethed, '_we're freaks, freaky shit happened, duh…_'

"What _didn't_ happen? The same thing that always happens… He wanted babies and someone he could grow old with. He grew up and didn't want to be married to Peter Pan anymore. It wasn't fair to him."

There was something rattling between his ears, something she wasn't saying. She was reserving pieces of the truth. While he understood it happened decades ago, he expected… _more_. Craig's death had affected her deeply, had torn her inside out, he'd bore witness to it – and it had still arguably been affecting her three hundred years later. And while the situation admittedly wasn't the same, Jason _did_ leave her life… but this time she seemed oddly detached. _Disconnected_. She was such a passionate person, it wasn't like her, something was wrong here…

"I mean, we did go to counseling for a while," she continued, "but I only brought it up to make him feel better, to give him the effort he _deserved_, he was a _really great_ man. And, we were still friends, even after he re-married. He got the kids he wanted, too – three of 'em, although one he had real trouble keeping out of the camps. Gave him _fits_. A _son_, of course – boys are _trouble_," she smiled at him wickedly. "No… he lived a long, happy life. It worked out for the best."

"_Claire_." She turned to him and it was his turn to stare her down. "What _else_ happened?"

Her jaw tightened and she scowled at him, knowing she was being called out on her deception. She tucked her left ear against her shoulder as one idle finger drew pictures in the sand.

"You're gonna think less of me."

"Holy shit, are you serious?" he laughed. "Claire, I _killed your parents_."

"I know," she smiled reluctantly. Her absentminded exploration turned up something that resembled a small shell or a smoothly polished stone. She held it aloft, bathing it in the wan light, trying to decipher its identity.

"There was _someone else_," she finally whispered.

"And he knew?"

"He suspected."

"So you cheated on your husband."

"I did _NOT_ cheat," she whipped around, dropping her treasure in favor of thrusting her finger in his face. "I never _acted_ on the impulse -"

"That's why you went to counseling, isn't it."

"- and I never even _told_ the guy. Neither one of them _ever knew_. I promised myself that while Jason was still alive I would _never_ betray him, whether I was his wife or not. He was a _good man_ who didn't deserve what he got. I felt _terrible_…"

"It's _not that_ terrible, Claire… so you had _feelings_ for some guy. The story had a happy ending, right?"

"Yeah…"

"_Yeah_. There you go." He picked up her forgotten piece of detritus intent of giving it an inspection of his own. It was creamy and opaque, although translucent in small, tight bands. It had an unusual texture. "So, what ever happened to the other guy?"

"He's still around."

He knitted his eyebrows in unanticipated interest.

"Wow… that's kinda weird… you're still lusting after some _geezer_… although, case in point," he gestured toward himself, "men do become more _distinguished_ with age…"

She didn't answer, not even to refute his boastful claim.

"So, what… is he, like, a _hundred_ or something by now?"

She clasped her hands and pressed them against her lips, maintaining her uneasy silence, suddenly reticent and possibly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, Claire, I shouldn't tease, I've got no room to talk," he sighed, pushing the little object in his hands back into the earth. "My one – _singular_ – relationship wasn't exactly stellar _either_, was it?"

She mumbled something he couldn't make out.

"Hmmm?"

"I said, the _other man_…"

"Yeah?"

She dropped her hands away, her eyes resolutely fixed on the horizon, shoulders squared, forthright. She was laid bare. _Here it comes._

"He's…" She took just one breath. "He's _four hundred and twenty six years old_."

"…"

He froze. At first he didn't think he heard her correctly. Her words tumbled through his mind over and over until his body was completely numb and nothing else in the world – not the beach, the moon, the sea, the stars, the _whole world_ – existed except the thinly veiled meaning behind what she'd just said. At last, she graced him with her eyes, haunted and apprehensive. He gaped at her, mouth wide and throat choked, fighting for every shuddering breath, paralyzed by an exhilarating mixture of astonishment, shock, vindication, and _fear_.

"You… _you_…" His tongue wouldn't work. He was going to die if he didn't run _right now_, taking this moment with him before he did something to ruin it.

"I fell in love with you," she breathed with her sweet face.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He was shivering, his teeth chattering, it wasn't happening… it wasn't _real_… he was locked in complete, bitter denial even though every cell in his body was gilded with glowing hot gold by the truth of her courageously shared secret.

How could he have been such an idiot. His heels dug holes in the sand as he flung himself backwards, his fingers clawing for purchase, and he writhed against his body and cruel gravity, trying to get away.

"I'll.. I'll _hurt_ you… you'll _hate_ me – you'll _LEAVE_ me – and I'll never see you again," he cried, voice soaked with boyish cowardice as he managed to clamber to his feet, sparks flying from his efforts, spinning away into nothingness. "How… _how can you_… I…" He whirled and tore across the placid silvery beach at high velocity, disappearing into the night.

"Well… _that_ was unexpected…"

~*~*~

The dome generator and the lighthouse sat on a crest overlooking the ocean. It was obvious that the scrubby lawns rolling down to the beach, where they became broken and patched by the invading sand, had once been brutally and irresponsibly terraformed by harmful alien grasses before the feral native varieties got help from a malfunctioning dome. The entire landscape , even at this time of night, was an exotic mix of beauty and chaos.

Feeling ashamed, embarrassed, frightened, and guilty, Gabriel's promenade of self-reflection was interrupted when he reached the base of the crest. The black mass that loomed above him in the dark appeared hollow – within its face yawned an enormous cave mouth. Curiosity and giddy intrigue overriding his emotional unrest, he picked his way up a few stones until he was able to crawl inside. Finding his new surroundings even darker than what he'd been accustomed to, he held out his left palm and allowed a ball of energy to hover there, casting a flickering blue flare against what he discovered were obviously man-made walls. Judging by his proximity, he was willing to bet the giant tunnel led to the dome generator. He _had_ to know what it was for.

His forward progress was obstructed by a monstrous pile of rock and debris, likely having collapsed as a result of the explosion. Unwilling to be deterred, he used a combination of telekinesis and his own muscle power to navigate his passage through the barrier. Depending on what lie on the other side, this was a mess Carrots might have to help him with later. Once through, his lonely footsteps echoing around him, he had initially thought the reddish hue ahead might've been his overactive imagination playing tricks on him in the dark, but after he'd extinguished his spectral lamp he'd been amazed to find it was strong enough to light his path. Contrary to his suspicions about the place, the shaft abruptly widened, opening into an immense, cavernous concrete space. The entire chamber was bathed in the soft scarlet glow of auxiliary lighting that he suspected operated on the same solar circuit as the lighthouse several stories above his head. Lining the truly expansive walls were what appeared to be bays designed for housing shuttle craft, ready with items used in their flight prep procedures, along with crates of the additive used to keep alive what few specimens of the native flora were allowed to flourish under the unlivable conditions of the dome. Unsurprisingly, the shuttles were all gone, having absconded to the safety of open space once the aerial barrier burst like a bubble under the weight of an oppressively poisonous atmosphere – the same one it had waged war with for decades before its controls were violently sabotaged.

But Gabriel was wrong… there was _something_… all the way at the _end_… Impatience pulled his feet into a jog. As he approached, the shape coalesced into the form of one lone shuttle. _Brilliant!_ It meant that his little group of refugees wouldn't have to be completely stranded once he made off with the transport – they could still filter water through the environmental system sealed hermetically within her confines, among other things, and they would still have an escape plan should the unthinkable happen.

He rounded her nose and came into contact with a scene that told a grisly, sorrowful tale, preserved despite the passage of time, waiting to be uncovered. On the far side of the craft, previously hidden from view, she'd taken structural damage from the blast, presumably to her engines. Desperate for escape, willing to take the chance that the vehicle could still fly, two bodies still occupied her cockpit, huddled close to each other behind the pilot's controls. From his vantage point, he could only make them out from the shoulders up. They were pressed together in a final embrace.

His feet wouldn't budge. Still reeling from the bewildering confession Claire had made to him, his mind swirled with aching thoughts as he pondered the portrait mummified before him. Their cheeks and eye sockets had sunken and their skin held a strangely yellow-grey leathery pallor, but they still had their hair, their fingernails… their eyelashes, sweeping down over their faces, closed in a heartbreaking expression of loving serenity. _At least they had been together._

In all of his life, Gabriel had never faced death – at least not his _own_… except for maybe that one failed attempt at hanging… and then there was that _other_ time, with the _sword_… But while he'd spent centuries in prison with not much else to occupy him outside of his regrets, he'd always been positive that, whomever he may become, his only certainty would be that he would have _time_. As he stared at the ill-begotten star-crossed lovers, he wondered if they'd felt the same way he did, standing on the edge of a deep chasm plunging into the unknown, wishing he'd done… _more_.

_Wishing he'd have told her…_

And in the end they'd _had_ something that he'd blindly tossed to the sea like a snake he was afraid would bite him. When their time had come, they'd _held onto_ it… and he _ran_ from it. It was _because_ he had nothing but time. What if they weren't good together? What if they grew to hate each other? What if he forsake her friendship, did something monumentally stupid, broke her heart? He didn't want to face eternity alone, and before now he _had_ her. But now… now he wasn't so sure he had _time_. All it would take would be one collar… _one good shot_ to the head… and he'd gasp his last breath wishing he still had her in his arms. The way these two did.

He didn't want to die alone.

Ready to move on, he blinked at the pair in farewell but promised to return in the morning to give them a proper burial. He stepped around to inspect the destroyed section of the shuttle's hull. It's motherboard was completely fried – irreparable for someone who didn't possess the ability to map and electrically solder new circuitry. Fortunately, he wasn't just anyone. As he prodded pieces of twisted metal and toasted wires he felt a draft brush across the back of his neck. Turning to face the wall behind him he saw for the first time that a large stretch of it had been obliterated, blown inward in large, jagged chunks, presumably by the blast. Amongst the rubble appeared to be the ruined shapes of a door and some stair railing. As he'd suspected, on the other side lay the generator chamber. Smiling to himself, he recognized that there was more than one lesson to be had in learning how to trust his judgment.

He pulled himself up the pile and climbed inside the familiar room, pleasantly humming with the sound of at least one properly working drive array (_for now_). Its musical language of clicks, buzzes, and whirs sang to him the vow that it would happily and faithfully carry out its duty, keeping these people alive… safeguarding the woman he loved. He stood before it for a few moments, watching it work, marveling over how it could do so when he'd really only MacGuyvered it back together with not much more than scrap metal, faulty wiring, powers of disintegration and electrical charge, and some chewing gum… But then, out of the corner of his eye, he was distracted by a small object that he hadn't seen before and certainly hadn't left there.

It was a fet. A fucking Hello Kitty pink one. And there was a note beside it. His toes curled and he grimaced. He wasn't sure he wanted to read that note, knowing who it was from, acutely aware of how he'd left their last… _encounter_. Morosely sorry, he decided he owed her, if nothing more, the integrity to hear her out. He opened the envelope and unfolded the paper concealed within.

'_I promised you this a long time ago if you upheld your end of the bargain. It's way overdue. It was falling apart due to age so I had it converted to digital format – I have a copy in the folder called Old_Stuff, I couldn't access the network share. I don't think we have net coverage here. Anyway, you let your remorse run your life Gabriel. It's time to let it go and live. I forgive you, so forgive yourself. If you die tomorrow, die happy._'

He read the note twice before he folded it into his t-shirt pocket. Curiosity once again guiding his body against his brain's wishes, he reached for the fet and turned it on. She'd left it with the file explorer open. He selected the folder she'd mentioned and his eyes were immediately drawn to a file named '_for_gabe_'. Certain that '_pictures_' and '_nursing_notes_' weren't what he was looking for, he opened the file. What loaded to stare back at him caused his knees to buckle. Landing hard on his tailbone in shock, he clamped a hand over his breathless mouth, temporarily blinded by hot, stinging tears. Suddenly delirious with joy, he laughed a bitter sob against his fingers.

It was the photograph Claire had held teasingly between her fingertips in a hotel room, lifetimes ago – the picture of a raven-haired beauty, the one whose featureless face had guided him when things had been unbearably rough, the one whose name had been robbed from him as a child along with her bitterly coveted memory. The one who'd been ruthlessly executed for… wanting to _keep_ him. He settled himself, straightening his legs as he dropped his hand away to stroke the high-definition pixels of her face, and salty liquid trickled into the corner of his mouth as he shakily whispered her name for the first time he could remember.

"Robin Elaine Matthews Gray." He tilted his head as he studied her, finding shades of himself in her elegant dark eyebrows and in the shape of her mouth. "Hello, _mom_."

He read the text attached – read about her life, her marriage, her _son_, her death. Her _ability_. She had been an empath – it was the gift she had given him. She had been a nurse. She had taken ballet lessons as a girl. She had grown up in the rolling hills of western Pennsylvania. She had collected books, most of them biographies – she liked _people_.

He let the fet fall to his lap between listless hands and rolled his back, allowing his eyes to soak his smile and images to flood his mind. She had an agile tongue and a hearty laugh that would make her snort if she really got going. She would let him play with his toy cars on the counter sometimes, while she cooked. Of obvious Italian descent somewhere, she loved pasta, loved fresh tomatoes… _grew_ them, yes! She grew them! On the patio, along with an herb box containing basil, parsley, rosemary… a few other things. She'd chide him for tormenting june bugs while she worked in her tulip garden. She made the best peanut butter banana sandwiches – with ten slices of banana, doubling the one in the middle to give it a sweet center… just like her _sweetheart_… her _angel_… She read him Aesop's Fables before bed every night, threading her fingers through his damp, freshly-bathed hair while her voice lulled him to safe, warm sleep, and he… he still remembered them to this day, knew them by heart. His favorite had always been the Lion and the Mouse…

Claire was so brave. She'd met him eye to eye and ripped the thorn right out of him.

Emotionally spent and becoming sleepy, he thought it might be a good time to redeem himself to her for the evening. Placing her fet in his shorts pocket, he tiredly plodded his way out to the lawn. Of all the shadowy, people-shaped lumps lining the bonfire's smoldering vestiges, hers was the most immediately recognizable with regards to its diminutive size. A tan quilt separated her skin from the sand as she lay curled up in her silken shawl, toasting in the warm molten glow of the ember light. He brought himself down beside her, both knees sinking into the malleable ground, and he boldly let one hand slowly smooth down her side, rippling the material from her waist to her knee. She sniffed a little but remained asleep. Lacking a proper pillow, her neck was bent uncomfortably, and she had her hands drawn tightly across her elbows. Unable to help himself, he lowered his body against hers, gently snaking an arm under her head to give it proper support, and draping his other arm around her waist to pull her into a soft embrace. He pressed his mouth against her neck, hot from the fire, her scent filling his senses and her pulse beating against his lips. Heart still raw with rushing memories, he let the words tumble out of him, having no strength left to stop them.

"Loved you for _four hundred years_," he murmured against her velvety skin. "Love you so much it _hurts_. Love you so much it makes me _helpless_… so much you make me a _slave_… Love you within an inch of my own _life_, I swear to god I'll give you anything you want. _Anything_. I'd go to the ends of the _earth_, Claire, whatever you want. Love you til the end of time, I swear to _god_ I will… love you so much… I _mean_ it… Love you so much you keep me _alive_…"

She shifted slightly and reached an arm around to run her searching fingers through his hair. He sniffled wetly and his eyes clamped shut at the contact, drenching her parched shoulder with fresh tears.

"Love you til the end of time… swear to _god_ I will…"

"Shhhh…" she hushed drowsily as she caressed his neck… the shell of his ear… the length of his jaw. And there, under the countless nameless constellations, he bore his soul to her, _worshipped_ her, grateful to be granted the privilege of her tender ministrations, until sleep finally silenced him.

~*~*~

Claire stretched luxuriously, the previous night's exchange still lingering through her dream-clouded mind. She twisted around, sighing contentedly as her spine made several satisfying pops, fully expecting to mash her face into the firm musculature of his chest to avoid assaulting him with her morning breath… only to find he wasn't there at all. She stopped mid-groan and sat bolt upright when an enormous splash startled her to full consciousness.

She was alone, still huddled next to a lightly smoking circle of ash and spent charcoal. She drew her drape around her more securely, warding off the dawn's damp chill, taking a peaceful moment to appreciate the wholly alien panorama. Facing the west, the sun was rising behind her, hidden by the house. The sky shifted colors across its expanse from pale buttery yellow to lime to aqua to something becoming a tad more purple. She assured herself she'd grow accustomed to the sight, but she couldn't take her eyes off of it… until another deafeningly wet crash made her jump yet again. Getting her feet underneath her, she pounded her way down to the beach.

Louisa and Arturo emerged from the transport as she approached, arms full with rations and containers of fresh water. As they nodded good morning to her, she couldn't help but wonder if they were really stocking up while they could… because the ship would be _leaving_ today… with a certain _man_ on it. A certain _missing_ man.

"You slep' well…" Louisa drawled as she sidled up next to her, hoping she could dump some of her burden into Claire's empty arms. It had been a statement, not a question. Claire shrugged noncommittally and accepted a heavy jug of water just in time to see a mammoth boulder fly from the side of the crest to plunge noisily into the ocean.

"Christ on a cracker!"

"Jesse be doin' some cleanin' for your sweetheart." Claire didn't try to refute the term. "Dere be a big cave up 'ere."

Curiosity piqued but arms becoming rubbery, she followed Louisa back to the house where they discovered Kelly working vigorously on thawing several different food items from frozen storage. On the counter, within arm's length, was the first aid kit from the transport which included a sub-kit for poisons and toxins (which predominantly featured the centuries' old tried and true method – Syrup of Ipecac). It didn't take a psychic or a mind-reader to clearly see that Claire was going to be the guinea pig in a series of experiments later on that morning… but she was happy to do so. The sacrifice of a few uncomfortable moments would ultimately save lives.

"Mmmm breakfast!" she called good-naturedly. "Whatcha makin'?"

"Eggs, I hope," Kelly answered, "and there's some _really_ nice looking steaks in here too."

"Well, this little Texan can appreciate a good start like that," Claire returned, aware that someone as relatively young as Kelly (despite her aged appearance) wouldn't understand the reference. Depositing her load, her attention was snared by the sound of engines bearing down on the beach. All three women locked eyes with each other before racing out of the house.

Immediately after the battered shuttle landed Jesse appeared at her aft, gingerly carrying two carefully wrapped bundles. He slowly laid them down as if they were so fragile they'd crumble into dust. He rubbed his hands on his pants and turned to face them, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

"You should've seen this thing earlier – swear, the guy can fix _anything_!"

"You have no idea…" Claire mumbled, inaudible over the sound of the turbines winding down. "What're those?" she gestured a bit more loudly.

"_Bodies_. Apparently we're gonna have a funeral."

The grim thought left her mind as quickly as it had entered the instant the shuttle's pilot set foot on the sand. Butterflies bubbled in her belly at the sight of his face – it was the first time she'd seen him clearly in the daylight since they'd told each other… her heart seized when his eyes met hers. She couldn't fight the flush that rose to her cheeks when his expression softened into something a shade more lusty and sensual. She sucked on her lip to keep her drool in her mouth. She stood her ground as he approached, secretly aching for the proximity he granted her freely, stopping to tower over her, his breath tickling her forehead. She wanted to tuck her hands under his shirt and rake them over every inch of his silky soft skin…

"I brought you something," he purred, indicating the cooling hunk of machinery behind him.

"For me? You shouldn't have," she returned with an expression that belied her tone.

"C'mon Jesse, we got a couple holes to dig," Arturo called before both men moved off. Kelly had already retreated to the kitchen leaving Louisa behind, bent down to inspect the mummies. While not under immediate scrutiny, Claire stood on her tiptoes and brought her cheek to his, reaching her lips toward the tender flesh of his earlobe.

"I missed you this morning," she whispered, the feel of his body against hers shooting pangs of pleasure straight into her groin. She sighed against his neck as she backed away and he brought both hands up to cup her face. His eyes dived into hers heavily.

"_I'm sorry._"

She quickly deciphered what his expression was telling her. Icy cold realization ran down her spine.

"You mean to leave today, don't you."

He hung his head, providing her the answer she'd feared.

"I just want to get it over with," he breathed, "so I can come _home_." He put a strong emphasis on the word – the meaning was not lost on her. Their shared understanding placated her slightly. She slid both of her hands down his arms and threaded her fingers into his, squeezing them tightly in reluctant acquiescence. It was something that needed to be done… it was something the man _had_ to do… and a part of her wouldn't have been so proud of him if he didn't. Falling prey to a sudden instinctual drive to claim him as her own, she rocked forward on her toes again and smoothed her lips over his cheek, drawing them to the corner of his mouth, noticing how his hands clamped strongly around her own, feeling his chest jerk against her with his quick gasp… he tilted his head toward her…

"Okay, I'm gonna start with the eggs!" Kelly called. "And yes, I'm lookin' at you two! Come tell me if these are any good!"

Claire growled and rolled her eyes while Gabriel scowled in very apparent annoyance. Begrudgingly, they obliged the woman, really shitty timing notwithstanding.

~*~*~

"Seal integrity?"

"One hundred percent, check."

"Check. Emergency oxygen kit?"

"Umm, yes, kit is situated by the port, it appears to be in working order. Check."

"Check."

As if the morning hadn't been uncomfortable enough, having spent '_breakfast_' rather green until they discovered that the foods kept in sealed containers remained largely unaffected by the enveloping toxins, and this was then followed by the burial of two rather grisly and shriveled dead husks… _now_ Claire felt like she was assisting Gabriel with his own suicide. She gulped against acid reflux, agitated by anxiety.

"Passenger and cargo area secure?" she read from the long, exhausting list. On the other hand, she was grateful to have these last few moments alone with him, while Jesse and Arturo were busy building a garden to grow fresh, oxygen-loving foodstuffs and the ladies were cycling thawed meat and eggs through the shuttle's scrubbing contamination unit. Gabriel moved to the passenger section of the long craft and cinched up the cots that had been used to accommodate them during their exodus from the Taurus sector.

"I think we're secure now, check."

"Check."

"What've we got left?"

"Environmental then power. What, you chompin' at the bit? Can't wait to get out of here?" she spat, bitterly. She wanted to say she didn't mean it… but she did.

"Yeah… can't _wait_ to jump back into space in another _exploding bucket_… I don't exactly have a great track record with spaceships, Claire…"

In truth, however, irrational fears aside, they both knew the whole flight check was one big stalling mechanism. The ship had flown just fine the day before – she'd barely had the time to cool off before now, when he was about to reignite her engines. Claire kept her eyes on the clipboard, not wanting to let him see how much they'd filled with sadness, not wishing to make the situation harder than it already was. He slipped the object from between her fingers and tucked it under his arm. She looked up to gaze into his apologetic face and lost her composure, crumpling into her hands, concealing the angry tears that were ripped from her by fate and its cosmic unfairness. Without hesitating he gripped her shoulders and pulled her shaking frame against his own, steadying her and attempting to calm her.

"Why did I scare you?" she sobbed against his shirt, twisting her fists in the fabric. "Why would I leave you? What were you thinking you were gonna do that was so much worse than what you've done to me already?" She wondered if she meant to include her current state of torment.

"You didn't scare me, Claire," he murmured against her hair, "I'm just an idiot."

Stepping away, pushing the backs of her hands against her wet, flushed cheeks, she hiccupped, "well, you have to leave that idiot behind – if you're walking back into the fire I want you going _smart_. I don't wanna spend forever alone any more than _you_ do."

"I _know_," he promised, "I know. I'm, uh… I'm gonna start 'er up, Claire. Meet me outside, will ya?"

She nodded and stroked his shoulder as she turned toward the exit bay at the aft.

The thundering turbines, spooling energy as they prepared for liftoff, drew a lot of attention. Certainly ready to see one less eyesore on the pristine stretch of beach, the group of refugees assembled to see Gabriel off and wish him luck. Kelly approached him first as he stepped out to say goodbye, handing him a wrapped bundle.

"I wish it was a bunch of sandwiches," she muttered, "but the bread's still questionable. You've got some soup, some veggies, and some canned ham for the road."

"Thank you, that's very kind."

He shook hands with the men, rattling off a quick list of reminders on emergency procedures for the dome generator. The heads between their deaf ears nodded with mock gratitude.

And then he turned to her. He was drowning in uncharted territory – a witty repertoire wasn't going to suffice here. For a split, panicked moment he wasn't sure he'd be able to summon the courage to kiss her. He was so practiced at keeping a respectable distance between them that the idea felt completely… _foreign_. He didn't know where to start… and there were so many people watching… but he couldn't just _leave_…

She stepped up to him, her glassy gaze piercing him, tipped just beneath his chin. She was so small yet so formidable – a warrior, a goddess, a petite flame of fiery conviction. How could he beg her to let him put his mouth on hers? How could she possibly find him worthy of such lofty affection? He turned a cheek to her – a cowardly display of timid insecurity. She would have _none_ of it. Warm, tentative fingers pressed against his face, drawing him back around to confront the expression that enchanted him so thoroughly. _Enraptured_ him. She was staring at the lovely divot just beneath his nose, dusted with feathery dark stubble rounding a leisurely path to his chin.

"Leave the idiot behind, Gabe… _kiss me_," she hissed.

Surprising himself with a sudden lack of hesitation at her command, he tangled his hands in her hair, sucking in a deep invigorating breath, and he diligently obeyed her. He closed his eyes and brushed his trembling lips against hers, encouraged when she opened them to him – opened _herself_ to him. She tasted him with a sweet pink tongue, sucking him greedily into her, mewling her consent, tenderly raking her fingernails up his sides, across his back, over his shoulders… his body went totally numb. He felt weightless, everything dropped away as he fervently fulfilled the urgent need to complete himself with her soft, cotton-candy kiss. He pulled away, tilted to the other side, and savored her again more firmly, warming her cheek with a lusty sigh, kneading his fingers down the muscles of her neck and spine, encircling her waist, meeting every inch of her shape with his own, desperate to prolong the spell… even though he knew he couldn't

He severed the contact but brushed his forehead against hers, lovingly combing through her hair.

"I _will_ be right back," he whispered against her nose.

"You better be," she panted, sweeping her hands across the planes of his heaving chest, stopping where she could feel his heart pounding. "And don't wait so long this time."

"I won't."

Her fingers dragged down his front as she fought to let him go, remaining where stood was as he backed away from her. The air between them grew cold and his eyes shone with frantic fearful regret. He made one last weak gesture, waving goodbye, before he swallowed and wheeled an about face, stalking with his chin held high toward the transport, a condemned man traveling his last mile.

Long after the craft lifted to the air and disappeared through the semi-permeable dome into the thick, venomous atmosphere above, and the day succumbed to evening allowing hatefully cheerful constellations to show their faces and mock her sorrow, Claire watched the sky and prayed to a God she wasn't sure she existed.

"Please, Lord… _please_ bring him home."

**A/N #2: I've decided writing kissing scenes is hard... cheese louise, that was rough. But hey, I got this posted in time for tonight's episode!!! Appropriate, don't you think?**


	14. 14 Frustrated and Unsatisfied

**A/N: Wheee at last we get to the parts that justify the rating I chose for this fic =D This chapter is a lot of plot resolution and action, and the return of Agent Mike - next chapter should finish that out and grant us a tad more fluff... although (sadness) I think the next chapter will end this fic. Zomg completion??? RLY??? What next?!?!? An epilogue, that's what. Because every good story has one. And I'm a big copycat. On with the show!!!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**14) Frustrated and Unsatisfied**

"_CLAIRE BENNETT LOVES ME!!!_"

His own jubilant voice assaulted his ears as the words tumbled back at him on a rolling moist, warm sea gale, pitched by the frothing, turbulent waves. Her slick, wet arms encircled him from behind, soaking his shirt and dribbling tiny particles of sand down his front. She tickled his skin as she pulled up on the fabric, exposing the soft, dark line leading from his belly button down to the parts of him she enjoyed most. Tucking her fingers under the hem, she let them wander freely over his abdomen, tracing the hollow under his ribs, rounding the firm planes of his chest until she bid him lift his arms so that the suffocating vestment could be discarded, flung carelessly to pile forgotten on the beach. The breath of her laughter puffed down his spine as she pressed her face between his shoulder blades, peppering sweet kisses there and hugging him tightly around the waist.

"_Gabriel Gray loves me_," she whispered into his back.

He tried twisting in her embrace to face her, longing to kiss her a priceless reward for saying such a thing, but she was quicker than he. The nimble fingers at his middle darted into his shorts to gently squeeze the soft fleshy head of his penis between them. He froze, scarcely moving to _breathe_ so as not to interrupt the fiercely pleasant sensation the touch had elicited. Closing his eyes and parting his lips with a tiny sigh of ecstasy, he savored the freedom to shamelessly become aroused against her palm, and she hummed her approval as she gripped him more firmly and slowly stroked him. He nearly groaned when she pulled her hand away, wiping a small sticky trail of seminal fluid across his stomach before she reached to pull the tie on the drawstring. He caught the shorts before they fell away, glancing around to be sure they were completely alone – he wasn't always the exhibitionist she was…

Which meant she didn't wait. His eyes were arrested from staring down the length of the beach when he heard another hushed '_plop_' of cloth hitting the sand. Her aqua-colored bikini top was lying in a stringy heap at his feet. Before him a mouth-watering pair of round, tantalizing nipples bounced and twirled while she hopped on one foot, trying to shimmy out of her bottoms with an adorably endearing lack of grace.

"_HA HA!!!_" she cried triumphantly when she finally held them over her head, slinging them around like a lasso, swinging her hips in a wild sort of '_Look at me I'm NAKED!_' dance. His entire body thrummed with laughter. He wanted to plunge his dick between those thighs as hard as he could, give her everything he had until she screamed for more. He wanted to keep that goofy smile on her face forever – _god_ he loved this woman! Loved the way she freed his inhibitions… loved the way she let him watch her undress… loved the way she held him at night… loved the way she said his name… loved the way she put tears of joy in his eyes when no one was looking… loved the way…

Loved the way he was going to _make_ love for the first time in his entire life. Loved the way he finally understood what that _meant_.

She stretched back the matching aqua-colored elastic band and sling-shotted the material to where it landed close to his shirt shortly before a wave caught her off guard, its force buckling her knees, causing her to fall back into a hysterically giggling watery oblivion.

"_WAHOOO!!!_" she squealed when her head bobbed back to the surface. It was all he could take, he'd reached his limit. His shorts pooled around his ankles. A devilish grin masked his features and he charged in after her. The instant he got a hand around her wrist she had herself pulled hand over hand up his arm until her elbows were around his neck and her knees clamped to his ribs. She covered his mouth with her own, moaning deliciously as she slid her body down the front of his and he popped inside her with one swift motion – like the sea, warm and wet. He gasped at the stimulus and she threw her head back, smile wide open.

"_Oh my god you feel incredible…_"

He wetted his lips and greedily smoothed his hands all over her – across her back, down her sides, grazing his thumbs over the ample swell of her breasts, around her behind to settle under the sleek length of her thighs. He tugged at her, forcing a delightful release of breath as he speared her with his entire length. He latched his lips onto her neck, suckling the erogenous zone where it met her collarbone, and beneath his trailing fingers he could feel the small of her waist arch away, pumping her hips to draw him in and out of her, in and out… in and out…

He angled himself to be sure he rubbed the parts inside her that would provide the greatest amount of pleasure, sinking his fingertips into her hips to match her movements. The motion became as rhythmical as their syncopated panting, blasting hot breath into his own face as he pressed his forehead against her shoulder and fought to meter the pace of his thrusts, careful to not let them become erratic.

'_Don't come, you idiot… whatever you do, do NOT come. Forget for a few minutes that you've wanted this girl for centuries and now you've finally got your – yes, definitely do NOT think about that…_'

He bit his lip and curled his toes, trying to ignore the fiery pressure binding in his kidneys, down to the base of his scrotum – and then it happened. _Blessed be_, it happened. Like a heavenly chorus of angels, she sang. She sunk her fingernails into his shoulders, her legs clenched around his middle and her spine rigidly straightened. Pulses like soft butterfly kisses rippled down his shaft as she squeezed her eyes shut and sang to the sky the exultant swan song of her orgasm. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever witnessed.

Both arms tightly around her, tangling in her hair and pressing her close enough that a tsunami couldn't dislodge him, he determinedly waded toward the shore until he was close enough he could sink his knees into the sand. He mewled a needy groan of urgency as he gently laid her down and covered her with his body, happy to be blanketed by the natural push and pull of the waves. He twined their fingers together, holding tightly, the rough stubble of his cheek brushing against the silky velvet of hers, and he let go of hesitation, pummeling into her with powerful and desperate fury. He recognized the signs of a second orgasm as she began to gasp unintelligible tones that sounded like a mixture of '_yes_' and '_don't stop_'.

"_I won't_," he trembled against the shell of her ear, a wave of excitement crashing over him like a dam about to burst. But then her words began to change, morphing into something… _different_… like the oscillating quavers of an alarm, someplace distant… he paid it no attention. He would not let it deter him, instinctually driven to deposit his genetic material directly into her openly accepting womb, without interruption. Although the noise became a persistent ringing in his ears, it was dulled momentarily by his own throaty whimpers as he… he was about to… he was going to… he was… _yes_, yes.. oh _god, _yes…

He was awakened by his own labored cries against his pillow. He was immediately aware of three things: there was a spreading and rapidly cooling puddle of liquid beneath him, there was an alarm sounding from someplace behind him (presumably the cockpit of the transport), and… he was _alone_. Pitifully and unsatisfyingly alone. And _now_ he was cold. He sat up and glared menacingly at the spent evidence of his climax, smeared across his abdomen and saturating the foamy material of the cot mattress. He smacked his hands limply into his lap.

"So… how old are we, now?" he growled at his offending organ. "Seriously, dude. _Not_ right."

He gave himself a thorough scrubbing with the blanket then rose in search of clothing, eager to violently silence the alarm with his fist. Or maybe an elbow. He hadn't forgiven it for briefly mimicking Cl… uhh, his _girlfriend's_ voice. That's right – he'd kissed her. Hell, she'd _asked_ him to. And she'd kissed _him back_. That part _had_ been real. Fastening his shorts and pulling the t-shirt over his head, he even thought he could still smell her. He was much happier now. Claire Bennett was _his_, and _he_ was _hers_. All was right in the world.

Except that he missed her.

He dragged his fingers over his sleepy eyes as he padded to the loudly protesting console, unsurprised at the vision that greeted him in the viewport – that of the amber-colored continents of Sumeria, reflecting her star's radiance back into the inky reaches of Leo sector space. He'd reached orbit and it was time to set her down. Surrounded by a nest of vigilantly watching geosynchronous satellites, he paused for a moment to open a secure channel directly from the ship's onboard communications array to Peter's fet. The message, in the grand scheme of things, was nothing more than an infinitesimal pulse – a _hiccup_ – a tiny little number. It told him he was in position and he was coming in. The return message he received was also numeric and was followed by the abrupt closure of the channel. Peter had given him the frequency the Black Guard used for Port Authority to be granted landing privileges – it would allow him to drop down in the middle of the lion's den. Gabriel gulped down his anxiety as he opened another line and placed his call. There would be no turning back now.

~*~*~

Mike Hornberg had not yet been reassigned a new partner after Beth's recent… state of handicap. Therefore, when he received word that the missing transport, suspected of acting as an escape vehicle for '_Jonathan Kendrick_', had been recovered by what appeared to be a contingent of the Black Guard and was en route to an airfield on the outskirts of town, he immediately cast the information to the side. Intimately aware of how powerful the man was, he had no interest in the potential to cross him again. On the other hand, when the field director paid him a personal call, reminding him how illogical it would be to show back up as a wanted man in the middle of a Federation compound on the very same ship he stole, that it was _perfectly safe_ and the vehicle was still in need of a very thorough investigation by capable hands he trusted above all others… with implications of a possible promotion lingering behind the tone of his voice… how could he refuse…? So, he assembled his own team of Guardsmen and chartered a hoverbus to guide them to their destination.

He could see, upon his arrival, that the place was in a complete state of lockdown. The small group of tenured employees were huddled outside the gates under the watchful eyes of the Federal Armed Forces, shoulders pressed together, buzzing with curious conversation. Once inside, he could see the transport on the far end of the field, having just touched down, swirling dust still attempting to settle under her magnetized hull. She was swarmed on all sides by military armament vehicles, soldiers, and Guardsmen, all prepared to do what was necessary should the unthinkable happen and the rear bay open to reveal the fabled Sylar bent on exacting his revenge… and maybe he wasn't alone. It was no secret the rebels had a _network_.

"You can send your men to join the others, Agent…" began the officer in charge as Mike stepped off the hoverbus, quirking an eyebrow at the overkill of force, ready to begin his assessment.

"Agent Hornberg."

"Right. As I said, Agent Hornberg, they may join formation, but I need for you to remain back here for the time being, just until we're certain the situation is under control."

Military men and their _control_… like _they'd_ faced this guy one on one or something… he tried not to laugh. What an elaborate illusion, _control_. Content to let them remain on the front line, he graciously agreed. What harm would it do? He knew there wasn't going to be a super-powered psychopath hiding inside the ship anyway.

Regardless, he held his breath when the bay door motor kicked to life, mechanically tilting the sheet of metal toward the ground to become a ramp. With a final '_boom_' the gears wound down from their finished work, agitating a new cloud of dust… one that _wasn't_ broken by the passage of bodies. Something nasty twisted in Mike's gut – nothing happened. Something was wrong here.

"Sir," he called to the officer that had addressed him earlier, after a few moments of tense silence. "With all due respect, sir, none of your men have seen what this guy is capable of, but I _have_. I cannot suggest more highly, if you value the lives of your men and the sanctity of their families, that you _do not_ send your soldiers in there. Let me send my Guard – they are better equipped to handle him. That is, assuming he's in there at all."

Mike was no stranger to scrutiny by intimidating men, accustomed to getting what they wanted. He held his ground with calm stoicism, praying the man would see logic and he wasn't disappointed. All he received was a curt nod of permission, but that was all he needed. He called in his command to Central, which then uploaded instructions via satellite that were transmitted to the black suits – they were biochemically programmed to obey. They filed their way to the transport and, without hesitation, stepped inside.

For a few long minutes everything seemed perfectly normal. The lazy song of flitting insects accompanied distant staccatos of laughter and shouts from the surrounding markets, residences, and farms. A calm breeze wafted the heady scent of grain and wildflowers and everything was _fine_ – the ship had been recovered by a small crew of Guardsmen and they were halted with no further orders, waiting for him to snap on his white rubber gloves and begin his investigation. He took a ready step forward.

Sometimes he wished the shadow men would scream.

The first one flew out the back of the transport to land flat on his back with a muted '_guff_'. He was followed by two more, tossed frighteningly like sacks of potatoes. The soldiers on the front line knelt and readied their weapons, and the inside of the craft lit up, illuminated by violently crackling and booming multi-colored explosions – some of which looked like fire.

"No!" he cried as he unconsciously charged toward the alarmingly rocking craft. "NO FIRE!" He bumped his way through the ranks of armed men, deftly avoiding hands intending to restrain him – he had a job to do and he would _not_ let it fall under jeopardy. "NO FIRE, you assholes! You'll destroy the evidence!"

Raging bolts of blue lightning clung to the hull and chased across the ground as a charred, smoking body rolled down the ramp to bump against his toes. Through the flurry of obsidian arms and legs performing a ballet of various abilities he could see his old '_partner_' crouched in the middle, giving them a really damned good fight.

What…? What the hell was he doing back _here_? In _this_ thing??? Was he _crazy_…?!? Mike didn't think for one minute he'd actually _be inside_… because that would be fuckin' _stupid_… like he _wanted_ to get caught… but maybe that was true, maybe that was _exactly_ what he wanted… If the rebels could get a man like _him_ inside the Leo camp, and he could somehow manage to get that collar _off_…

Mike dropped and collected a utility belt from the body at his feet. Over his right shoulder he could make out the humming approach of a flock of drones, arriving to provide him additional cover should Gabriel overpower the armed forces and make a break for it outside of the compound… assuming their armaments didn't vaporize him first. The little flying machines were typically faster than human legs and had proven useful on escapees countless times before. They encircled the transport, ready for further instruction. Mike couldn't shake the feeling Gabriel had known he wasn't going to make it out of this, but he set it aside knowing he couldn't just let him go, either.

Six of the drones, three on either side, began to drill holes through the hull of the craft with their searing red lasers, creating greater access to the interior. While their sensors wouldn't allow them to enter the vehicle, the openings did provide greater opportunity to anyone capable of making a good shot. But Mike wanted him _alive_. He crept around the port side, dodging sparks and falling chunks of metal. He pressed his back against the hull, ducking beneath the rim of the new '_window_', waiting for the right moment to place his head in harm's way to have a look. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught three snipers moving into position. He was out of time – he _hated_ pressure like this. Praying the ancient rebel was too busy to notice, Mike drew the net shooter, thrust his arm through the hole and fired in one swift motion. The blazing red lattice erupted as it shot across the cargo bay, snagging Gabriel's entire body and pinning it with a loud '_thud_' against the far bulkhead. Before he could retrieve his tranquilizer gun the remaining Guardsmen had Gabriel collared and unconscious. Not hesitating to find out what the soldiers next move would be, Mike dove through the opening and placed his own body in the direct line of fire.

"Get out of the way, son," the commanding officer directed, "you don't want any trouble on your head if he manages to get out of here. You know what has to be done."

"Sir, I have my orders – I was sent to investigate this matter to its utmost and to procure every and all forms of evidence, including her passengers. _Alive_. This man is wanted for questioning on Pisces before he is to be turned over to the proper authority. There may be distance between our worlds, officer, but due process doesn't care about that. Your men need to lower their weapons before this little stand-off becomes an official incident."

"Are you kidding me, boy?!? That piece of shit _IS_ a walking '_official fucking incident_'!"

"Be that as it may, my orders are directly from the executive branch, and are currently the highest authority here. Now please, be so kind as to ask your men to lower their weapons."

For a moment Mike was afraid that they'd be willing to sacrifice him in their effort to exterminate their target. It wasn't uncommon for military types to take desperate measures. Sometimes Mike regretted not taking the highly paid desk job he'd been offered a couple relative years ago. Sometimes he wished he'd have gone to an actual university instead of the academy. He wished he was a baker… a window washer… a farmer… _anything_. He wished he'd called his wife that morning. Wished he'd told her he loved her. Wished he'd have been a more religious man.

His prayers, however, were answered. The troops withdrew, allowing Mike to remove the main motherboard from the transport's console and gather a few other items of interest before absconding with his Guardsmen and his prisoner. The hoverbus, surrounded by its cavalcade of protective drones, made haste through the city until it reached the mod camp and the associated lab, hidden in a deep chamber beneath the generator housing for the force dome. Safely within the walls of the facility, physically chained to two of his seven remaining suits, Gabriel was deposited to where he could be held until the next day, when he'd begin his trek back to Pisces.

~*~*~

Gabriel was jostled awake as the ship entered the atmosphere. Temporarily disoriented, worried he might've dreamed the events that took place after his landing, he groaned and bent at the middle in an attempt to sit up and take in his surroundings. He got about as far as the restraints on his wrists would let him. It was about that time that he truly registered the chilled weight of the collar adorning his neck. Alas, the Leo airfield had been real. He was flanked on both sides by stationary black suits, eerily immobile as they diligently held their posts.

'_Stay calm, don't cause any problems_,' a telepathic voice rang inside his mind.

'_Pete._'

'_I'm the one on your left. Everything is -_'

'_Dude, how long have you been standing like th-_'

'_Pay attention. Everyone is in position and everything is going perfectly according to plan._'

'_Okay, _now_ you're making me nervous._'

'_It'll be alright, listen – we don't have much time. You're being moved with a whole lot of folks from the Leo labs – people they've worked on. They tested your blood once they got a hold of you and found your marker. I said before but didn't get to explain much – they're experimenting on these people trying to find away to make the mod injection resistant to a cure, so they can keep them they way they are, safely under control. They've never been able to do it until now. They made real headway when they got Claire, but -_'

'_But because of the press they moved her._'

'_Right. Once they got her to Taurus, though, they got a pretty good start on a new injection, but it'd still be easier if they had -_'

'_Me._'

'_Yes. They're still worried about rebel infiltration on Leo, and the central field director is foaming at the mouth wanting to drag you in for questioning, so they're moving all of you – the whole shebang – to Pisces. Which means, much to the director's chagrin, you're headed straight for the Central laboratory. If there's a bright side to what's happened to these people, it's that a lot of the work has already been done for us. All we have to do is take what they've made and plug _you_ into it, then we're ready to fly._'

'_Ready to fly, huh? Famous last words._'

'_I know, I admit… it's not quite that simple. Your old partner snagged the motherboard and the stored memory banks off of the transport. It's only a matter of time before he discovers that the ship made one tiny little phone call right before the one received by Port Authority… and he's gotta also wonder how the hell you got the Black Guard's landing code._'

'_But, you'll blow your… dude, you've had this cover _forever_… why would you compromise it?_'

'_Because this is what I kept it_ for. _If we succeed, _everything_ will change. Look, the ship's landing, we're gonna be moving soon. Put up a little struggle, make it look real, but don't waste too much time. Once they start getting additional evidence that you're involved in an invasive plot the director's gonna get his way and he'll do anything to pull you out of that lab. We're in a race against the clock. Oh – I can hear our buddy here getting his instructions. Time to go._'

Gabriel remained perfectly still, not wishing to give any indication that he knew what was going on. In unison, his guardians turned to his restraints, removing them from the bars lining the sides of his cot then twisting them around to be clamped around their own shadowy wrists. Without warning, they both marched forward, pulling him to stumble unceremoniously to his feet. As they dragged him through the ship and down the loading ramp, before his feet touched the disembarkation quay, he could hear a singular, agitated voice.

"I don't give a shit _HOW _'_pinnacle_'he is to your work – your work is _BULLSHIT_ compared the havoc he's created within this organization! Does a single one of your _egghead asshole scientists_ have any idea how _old_ he is?!? Or what he can _do_?!?"

"I assure you, we know exactly -"

"He's fucking _ancient_!!! And fucking _powerful_!!! He's been in our system for entire fucking _DECADES_ feeding information to those rebel bastards, _right under our noses_!!! There's no telling _who_ he's been, for _how long_, _WHERE_ he's been… and you're telling me you think it's more important, _right now_, to poke him full of a bunch of useless fucking _NEEDLES_?!?!?"

"Director Scott," the labcoat in charge explained with well-practiced patience to a tall man whose face was currently as red as his hair.

"Don't you patronize me with that _tone_, son -"

"_Director_, we have reason to believe, with the recent events having transpired in the Leo sector, that this project is a _rebel target_. Sir, time is of the essence, and I assure you we have nothing but this organization's best interests in mind -"

"I don't want your fucking _canned spam response_!"

"Sir, please don't make me remind you which branch put him on the front lines in the first place."

The room hummed with tense silence as his processional left it behind. Before the exit hid the scene from his view Gabriel saw his old partner and betrayer, Mike Hornberg, out of the corner of his eye, moving to join his superior and stand beside him with proudly squared shoulders. Briefly their eyes locked before the younger man dropped them away, the memory of their previous encounter still horrifyingly fresh. Or maybe… there was something _else_.

~*~*~

It was hard to define what she was feeling, but if Claire had to put a label on it, she'd say she was '_stir crazy_'. What had started as an exhilarating extended vacation in Paradise had quickly become close quarters with a small handful of perfect strangers and nothing much to do, and nothing to think about except '_eternity_'. It was looking like she was going to be spending a rather gratuitous amount of time in the confined space of the dome with no one else in the entire world outside of four other people. Claustrophobia didn't even begin to cover it.

Because she could, she'd resigned herself to a new habit of taking long walks in the wilderness outside the protective barrier. She'd assured her roommates that she was merely scouting for supplies amongst the other houses, but neglected to mention that what really kept drawing her away was the allure of a broader horizon. And maybe a little peaceful solitude. She felt like her world was shrinking, and the retracting walls were threatening to rub against wounds she'd rather leave untouched.

Like how much she worried about him. And _missed_ him. And she missed _Harley_. She felt like she had work left undone, that more people out there _needed_ her, and she was stuck in purgatory, disarmed and sitting on her hands.

She'd returned from another afternoon of wandering only to find herself disappointingly _unsatisfied_. She'd brought back arms full of clothing and a couple boxes of tampons (because the world didn't stop for biological needs), recognizing that if she wanted to carry more or explore at a greater distance she was going to have to stop walking and start taking the shuttle… at which point she was going to end up with passengers. She sighed… perhaps that wouldn't be _so_ bad. Having scrubbed the newly acquired apparel through the environmental system aboard the little craft (thankfully the sanitary items were individually sealed and wrapped making their sterilization process a little easier), she'd finally exited to face the last frontier she'd yet to investigate: the lighthouse.

First, she started a load of laundry and ate a lovely meal consisting of hardboiled eggs and roasted red peppers (courtesy of Arturo's flourishing new garden). She engaged in polite conversation over dinner and lingered for a short time with her new family to enjoy a few rowdy games of poker, but as the afternoon slipped into evening and the time came for winding down Claire ducked away unseen, wrapped a soft mohair sweater around her shoulders, and disappeared into the sunset with a fresh cup of herbal tea. Enshrouded in moist twilight she marched a slow, serene path up the hill to the entrance of the tall, cylindrical structure.

She rode a magnetic lift to the top where she entered a small control room situated just beneath the access to the persistently spinning lamp. The utilitarian space was whitewashed an uncomfortable color, and the sparse furnishings offered little to be desired. It was exactly what she'd expected… and what she'd hoped for. Curving all around her, encircling her entire periphery no matter which way she turned, was one panoramic pane of seamless plexi-cement. Beyond that, stretching away into infinity only interrupted by the feminine and seductive curve of the planet, was the endless rolling sea framed by the vast, fathomless sky. Claire sat until she lost track of time, sipping at liquid that had long since gone cold, butt growing numb on a hard aluminum chair, pretending she could _just_ make out, in the distance, the mirage of an approaching ship. Any ship would've been fine, but she preferred _his_.

One kiss was _not_ enough.

Unsure of what was making her ache, the chair or her own bitter longing, she finally rose, the falling night robbing from her any stimulus to distract from her morose imagination. She rested her mug on the console while she removed her sweater from where she'd draped it over the back of the chair. She jumped in surprise when the air in the tiny chamber was shocked with the scratchy blare of static before she began to clearly hear voices – _familiar_ voices – talking …

"Yeah, I tested da fish after it boil, it had a harder time lettin' go of da toxin than the red meat -"

"Louisa, is that you?" Claire called.

"…Claire…? Where be you, child?"

"Uhh… that's the weird thing… I'm in the _lighthouse_. _Alone_. Where are you?"

"Da kitchen. I think – oh yes, here -" The connection was abruptly severed before immediately springing back to life. "Are you still dere, child?"

Claire found herself coming to love the pet name. "Yes, I'm still here. I think I might've accidentally kicked on some sort of intercom with my cup."

"Aye, de doorhandle was pressing a button on a panel here."

"Well, isn't _that_ fun!"

"I've seen another console," she could hear Kelly in the background, "there's one in the front room, and I think there might be another upstairs somewhere."

"I bet there's one or two in the generator room too."

"Everyt'ing okay up there, girl?" Her tone of voice was soft and grave. Louisa was so perceptive, even for a telepath.

"Yeah… I'm alright. Coming down now, bedtime."

"You see anyt'ing up 'ere?"

Claire chose not to answer. The truth was that she could see _everything_ up there – the _whole stunning world_… just nothing that she _wanted_.

~*~*~

It was a frustrating enigma. Mike Hornberg was up far later than was physically agreeable for someone his age, but whenever his head hit the pillow of his modest hotel bed, series of numbers flashed before his eyes like obnoxious neon signs. There had been two pulses, small and seemingly innocuous – one out, and one received. Having spent the majority of his adult life studying and investigating rebel methods he just plain _knew_ he was looking at some sort of code. Except they usually used a very complex form of alphabetic code and this was numeric. He had no Rosetta stone, no frame of reference. The numbers could've meant anything.

What _was_ interesting, however, was the only piece of information he _had_ been successfully able to glean. The communication had been sent to a private fet. Typically, he had been told that afternoon after interviewing reps with a local FTLR (Faster-Than-Light Relay) network carrier service, fet numbers didn't get recycled until they'd been out of commission for what was considered a standard '_generation_', or twenty-five Earth years. This number, on the other hand, had seen continuous use for many years… in fact, _decade after decade_ of uninterrupted use. There had been several names tied to the account, consecutively, but it was plain to see the number had been in service far longer than the average human lifespan. Either the same grievous accounting error kept getting made over and over for centuries without ever being noticed, or… the device, it's plan, and even the carrier supporting it had all been covertly sabotaged by rebels.

What was even _more_ coincidental was that Gabriel Gray had been alive the whole time the little communicator had been in use. The girl he'd tried to rescue on Leo (the one he'd subsequently freed after she'd been incarcerated and extradited to Taurus), it turned out, was nearly the same age, also possessing the same regenerative ability – an ability the Lab was dying to get their hands on. There were rumors amongst the lab technicians to whom he'd spoken that Gabriel was actually a _mimic_, and that it was possible, given that they'd obviously known each other, that he'd originally gotten the ability from her. Judging from the illicit activities in which the girl had been engaged it was a fact that she was a rebel, and to date she was still at large… was he calling _her_? No, that couldn't be… the destination of Gabriel's message had been to a point on Sumeria – the same point from where the returning call had originated via the private fet. It was highly unlikely the girl had made it back to Leo before he did.

And then Mike had an idea. First of all, Gabriel _was_ up to something. No wanted criminal in the long, exhausting history of wanted criminals had ever shown back up to the scene of the crime in the very same stolen vehicle, essentially begging to be captured. Second of all, there _was_ a communication between Gabriel and an unnamed individual shortly before the event took place. _And Mike had the number_. If he had a number, he had a trace. If he had a trace, he had a _location_. If he had a location… he had a _person_, and perhaps the opposite end of a potentially insidious plot. In the morning, Mike would find that fet… and the hand it fit inside.

It wasn't that a part of him didn't empathize, he supposed as he finally stripped himself down to his t-shirt and boxers, smearing toothpaste onto his toothbrush, ready to rid his breath of a rank stench from too much coffee. Shortly thereafter he lay in bed, again, waiting for sleep, thinking about the people in the Leo camp… and the countless other camps he'd picked through while gathering evidence for past cases. There were grandmothers rotting away inside of tiny, cramped little shacks who never saw the universe outside of a force dome simply because there was the _potential_ that one strange, misunderstood ability could harm someone. There were children who had nothing more to look forward to than maybe the brief reprieve of a three or four month work release, earning money for their commune to help improve their conditions – to purchase new clothing or books for a library. They would never know the benefit of an education beyond what was considered rudimentary (which was a pitiful shame for those born with what was considered above extraordinary intelligence).

He flopped over onto his side, frustrated by his incessant wakeful thoughts. He'd joined the academy because he'd come from a poor home and it was less expensive than college, promising to lead to a lucrative career with a moderate salary… one that was also responsible for segregating whole populations. And while he had first-hand experience that some people were absolutely terrifying with their abilities (his current subject his foremost example), he could understand valuing the freedom to pursue happiness and dreams, and a peaceful life. But as it stood, he was going to continue traveling potentially months at a time to be put in situations that would ultimately risk his life and limb, and if he didn't his wife and children would have a hard time eating and keeping a roof over their heads. Seeing both sides of the story didn't change his priorities. The conflict between his kind and theirs kept him in a job, and peace was a pretty lofty aspiration for one insignificant man.

After a free continental breakfast the following day, dodging frigid Avalon rain like bullets with eggs and a bagel warming his belly, he trudged under a dripping umbrella the couple blocks that stood between the hotel and the little retail storefront for the fet carrier service he'd visited the day before. He didn't need to flash his fearsome Federal I.D. a second time – he was immediately recognized by the manager who'd previously helped him.

"Agent Hornberg, back so soon?"

"If it's possible to trace a location on a number, I need you to do it." He and the man both knew he was legally obligated to do so, as a part of the investigation.

Mike was stunned to discover the fet was currently on _Avalon_.

The results on the holo-display burning into his retinas, all he could do was stare in shocked, pensive silence. It was almost as if… the person had somehow made it over on the _same ship_…

A memory nagged at the back of his consciousness, persistently poking for an audience. The last time Mike had seen Gabriel… at the gym in the basement of the Leo office, when he'd attacked him and slaughtered a copious number of Guardsmen in one fell swoop… there had been one that stood and _yelled_… acting _without direct orders_. And he'd _healed_… exactly like Gabriel… could've been alive a long time, exactly like Gabriel.

And the transport had gotten past Port Authority using the Black Guard's private landing code…

… _Could it be_…?

He decided maybe it was a good idea to enact a _particular_ evasive order.

~*~*~

'_You think we're underground?_'

'_Shh, hush – I'm listening._'

'_Oh, okay._'

Gabriel impatiently drummed his fingers on the floor of his cage, having grown impatient imagining he was a rat. It was an unsatisfying illusion anyway – he had no fur, had a much lower metabolic rate, and was currently draped in not much more than a smock. He was cold. _Again_. Beaches were warm. And so were some oceans. And cozy mansions with lighthouses. And Claire.

'_It's just that it took a long time to get here, and it smells kinda earthy, and -_'

'_Dude, seriously. Listening._'

'_To what?_'

He thought the pause might've been the mental equivalent of an exasperated sigh.

'_Something's up with the Guard. I'm trying to talk to Olivia._'

'_Why am I still in this cage? Why aren't we screaming across the galaxy in a stolen ship with a new injection already?_'

'_Because the current lab techs on shift aren't rebel spies. I've taken care of them, they're currently taking a nice nap in the supply closet, but we've gotta wait for a shift change._'

'_Because racing against the clock wasn't already so much fun…_'

'_We've only got forty more minutes… it's just that -_'

Peter didn't finish his statement.

'_Dude, let me out of here and I can help, whatever's going on_,' Gabriel called but got no response.

He hated being helpless… hated being a prisoner… _hated_ feeling useless. He was fucking _Sylar_, for shit's sake. His heart started to race and his chest was heaving, shoulders tight with unspent energy. He dug his fingernails into the hard white plastic underneath him, grinding his teeth against every cough and whimper that reached his ears from his surroundings. He was trapped in a sick ward with a bunch of dying refugees when he should be out _there_, with his damned collar _off_, using his abilities and _making shit happen_. What was it that Agent Riley had told him so long ago? He was arguably the most powerful man in the universe? So what the hell was he doing in a cage?!? He rammed his fist against the plexi-cement door in frustration, it's warped ripple eliciting a few startled gasps from his neighbors.

He was interrupted from tugging fingers through his hair when a loud '_pop_' snagged his attention. A volatile violet disc had burst into existence in the middle of the room, facilitating the passage of Peter (with his masking mechanism disabled), the girl Belinda, and three other individuals including a slim brunette with expressive green eyes.

"Thought we had forty more -"

"Plans changed," Peter muttered, out of breath, as he accessed a control panel and simultaneously opened the doors on all of the cages, releasing a fairly substantial population of about thirty people. Like them Gabriel stumbled free, barefoot and bleary eyed, unsure of what to do. Olivia left Belinda's side after assuring the girl was okay – regardless of the medical attention she'd received she was still healing from a gunshot wound – and approached him.

"Hold perfectly still – I'm gonna try to remove this without triggering its alarm mechanism." Her fingers sunk into the clammy blinking metal disabling its lock without interrupting its circuit.

"What's going -"

"We have to move quickly," Peter continued from where he'd moved with the two other rebels, setting out lab equipment and awakening hibernating computer consoles. Olivia left to start removing the collars of the other prisoners. "The entire contingent of Guardsmen here in Itasca have been reprogrammed to speak a fictitious language – _just now_. They're receiving instructions that I can't understand. They're looking for the one suit that's _different_ – they're trying to flush me out. Come here." Gabriel obeyed and joined him. "Meet Joan and Phil. Joan and Phil, meet Gabriel. They're here to help you. They're going to provide you with all the work that's been done so far and all of the corresponding notes. You have to -"

"Are you kidding me?!? I don't know _anything_ about -"

"Sylar, they are _coming for us_! They know I'm here, they know I'm not what I appear to be, and they know _you're_ up to something -"

"Exactly!!! Dude, I can't just snap my fingers and -"

"If you can learn to fly a fucking space shuttle in the span of a few seconds then you can do this! We're out of options, man… we _need_ you." Their eyes met for a moment while Gabriel tried not to think about just how crazy this plan was. "We're not gonna get another chance like this. This is _years_ of work in the making, just to get to this point. Please…"

He let his eyelids hide the scene for a moment, plunging him into blessed darkness. He sighed his reluctant acquiescence before opening them to Phil and Joan. Seeing the determined look on his face they immediately got to work preparing the necessary fluids while Gabriel approached a console, scanning its holo-display in a frenzied attempt to allow his brain to soak up the requisite information.

"We'll hold them off for as long as we can," he distantly heard Peter reply as he gathered together the remainder of their small, modest army. It was the last external stimulus his narrowing focus would allow. He never even felt it when he pricked his own finger to allow a few crimson drops of blood to drip onto a petri dish. He saturated his offering with a splash of the current mod injection, then subjected the solution to be scanned by an electron microscope, feeding its results to another larger holo-display.

He watched with rapt fascination as the molecules reacted to one another. His searching eyes found the virus and studied its movements, its behavior, and noted its surroundings when it finally disintegrated into crumbling, fragmented parts, completely destroyed and reabsorbed as food by neighboring metabolizing cells. He watched the cycle repeat itself in every incident where the virus was present. He watched the matrix that held the virus in suspension – watched how it acted, what it mitigated and what it was forced to allow through. And then he saw it – the antibody, as unique in all of the universe as a single fingerprint, the microscopic weapon that would be used to liberate millions of souls. So small, so miraculous. Intricate and beautiful in its simplicity, lying dormant within him the whole time. He couldn't help the puff of wondrous laughter that slipped through his lips.

"_Eureka_."

"You got it?"

"Where, I don't see -"

"Right there," he instructed his partners, winding the video file backwards and pointing to a paused frame. "_That_ right there."

"We'll need blood before we can synthesize it," Joan relayed meekly. It was then that he truly noticed the level of noise coming from the blocked entrance to the lab. One of the mods had secreted a substance that had cemented the door shut, others with various offensive abilities were crouched and ready should the barrier not hold under the external assault. Another mod, who appeared to possibly be a telekinetic, stood with her arm outstretched, adding much needed stability to their first line of defense. He faltered for one difficult moment, fresh on the heels of his recently used ability, tempted by all the others, power buzzing through them like tightly wound clock springs. Calming Sylar, he pushed the sinister urge aside and resumed his task.

Acutely aware that digging for a tourniquet and syringes would waste valuable time, grabbed a beaker, thrust his hand over the rim and slashed it open, ignoring the way Joan groaned and turned away, looking a little pale. Extracting what they needed from the sample, they were then able to replicate a significant quantity making prodigious use of a petite yet extremely expensive desktop cloning cabinet. By the time cracks started appearing in the plank of the door and the walls started rumbling, making Gabriel think perhaps they were trying to drill their way through, they had an IV bag full of what they believed to be a working solution.

Olivia charged to the console, pushing the three unceremoniously out of the way so that she could jam her hand deep inside.

"I'm pulling all of this information into my neural tap and leaving no trace." She looked directly into Gabriel's eyes. "What I'm saying is, outside of my physical body and _that bag_… there will be no other copies of this information." He understood what she meant. If Peter couldn't keep her safe, he _would_.

Belinda limped on slow but steady feet to the middle of the room, ready to employ another dose of her remarkable magic, but ducked in shocked fright when a thunderous crash heralded the collapse of a wall to the side of the doorway and the inevitable infiltration of the Black Guard and their drones. Lights flashed and people screamed as blinding electric scarlet netting blistered and scorched its clawing restraints across the refugees. Those who managed to escape fought back. Gabriel, having already donated the full extent of his importance, stepped forward, bringing his arms up to flex the absolute strength of his telekinetic power – he pushed against the surging crowd of black suits, forcing them to retreat a few steps whether they wanted it or not, providing those crushed in the zones where they'd advanced the opportunity to get some distance.

"Get that portal up!" Olivia cried to Belinda as she launched from where she stood to snatch the IV bag from Phil, stuffing it deep within her own body as the other girl used one finger to open a swirling purple hole. "I can get this out of here and -"

"_Stop right there!!!_" The exclamation was punctuated by the echoing ring of a single gunshot. The Black Guard halted and a terrifying silence befell the punctured room. "Anybody even _twitches_ and the girl is dead."

Gabriel peered across the chaos into the grim face of Agent Mike Hornberg, standing ankle deep in rubble with an impressively large firearm lined up on Belinda. The poor girl just wasn't going to get a break…

"Mike, buddy, you don't understand -"

"You damned straight I don't understand, and I'm not _paid_ to. I'm just here to do a job, and no one has to die. Now, I want everyone, _very calmly_, to get back into those crates – _nice and slow_."

Belinda began to tremble, her portal began to flicker. Mike pulled back the hammer when no one moved, proving how very serious he was.

"Mike, please…" Gabriel begged, "These people haven't hurt anyone, it's me you're after, just let them -"

"Don't you get it? I can't let _any_ of you go. Now I want you _back_ in those cages – I'm _not_ gonna ask again!"

"Don't you get tired of this…?"

"Tired of what – chasing _your_ sorry ass around? Sure! Tired of providing for my family?!? I guess I don't -"

"No, I mean tired of the time away from home – like that first mission we went on when I'd just gotten assigned to you. You had a little baby then – we were gone for _three months_. You were afraid the kid wasn't even gonna _know_ you when you got back – aren't you tired of that? And that time when you broke your leg in the mountains on the Cancer colony? Or all the times you've been shot at? All the times you've faced death -"

"Says the guy who tried to _disembowel_ me, I'd like to point out -"

"- all the times you weren't sure you were gonna be able to kiss your wife again… the times when all you had was a _prayer_ – I was _there_ for some of those, buddy. What's it for? So innocent people can continue to be locked in an equally miserable existence? Don't you just get sick of it?"

"Of course I do! Of course I know it's all bullshit! But what do you want me to do, give up my _job_ for you? Try to feed my kids on unemployment and welfare? Fight the mods for work releases to make ends meet? What am I supposed to do here?!?"

"Agent, if I could just say," Peter bravely interjected, hoping to drag the man's eyes away from his aim without succeeding – Mike was well-trained, "if you really wanted to shoot that girl, you'd've done so by now. I'm not saying you _wouldn't_, just that you don't _want_ to."

"What's your point?"

"It's just… I've been around longer than this conflict… so has Gabe. We _remember_ what this is about, but you… you _don't_. It's always been in your life, as a constant, and in a way that sort of _removes_ you from it. We _remember_ when mods were dangerous – we _remember_ when they needed to be controlled. We _know_ why these institutions were put in place. But that was hundreds of years ago. _These_ people… they've done _nothing_. Nothing more than _you've_ done. And I think you see that. In fact, I think you see that more clearly than most – given the fact that you're _standing here_." He took a tentative step forward. "This plan we had, this _plot_ – look around – there's no bomb, none of us are armed. This is more than just a rescue mission. What we've made here is the _key_ – the key to _ending_ this conflict. _For good_. And nobody dies – nobody gets hurt. Us mods, and natural borns, whatever you wanna call us – we can _leave_ – leave forever and you'll never have to see us again. We won't need injections anymore – we can go to our _own_ world, support our _own_ economy, live autonomously and _never come back_. And you'll never have to worry, ever again, about making your wife a widow or leaving your children fatherless. All you have to do is _let us go_."

"But… I… I _can't_ just…"

"Mike -"

"I'm _just one man_! How can I possibly -"

"You're one man with the entire universe on his shoulders," Gabriel told him, intimately able to relate. "I promise where we're going we'll make a statue of you or something. You'll be _Saint Mike_, whatever. All you gotta do is _let me have the gun_. Peter here will make you go to sleep, and you can claim you were ambushed and overpowered – _job intact_. Everyone's happy, everyone's _alive_, and the world's a better place – because of _you_."

Sweat beaded on Mike's brow as his nostrils flared with gut-twisting, adrenaline-fueled indecision. Gabriel was able to identify every thought – every emotion – that crossed the man's face like a slideshow. His inherited empathy told him that when he looked down that barrel and he saw the youthful and charming Belinda staring back, sights lined up between her eyes… he saw his own daughter in twenty years. He saw too many arrests drawing good, kind people up on bogus charges based simply on how someone was _born_. He saw regret – Mike's life hadn't turned out like he'd hoped, perhaps far more complicated than what a simple family man would've bargained for. And he saw an awesome, reverent fear. Standing where history was being made was often a scary place to be.

"This can all end, right here, Mikey," Gabriel whispered as he stepped to the side, bodily blocking Belinda from the man's deadly aim. He reached out a guileless arm. "Let me have the gun."

Across the distance he could feel his hold on it slacken as he gently eased the hammer back into place. Gabriel gave it a tiny tug… and Mike's hands listlessly fell away. Beside him Olivia brought her fingers to her lips as she nearly choked on a victorious sob of joy and relief, watching the weapon float across the room to land in Gabriel's waiting palm. Peter approached the agent very slowly, arms held wide in a placating gesture.

"You're gonna feel me inside your mind, alright? But it's nothing to be afraid of, in fact it'll probably be very pleasant. You're just gonna get a little drowsy, but nothing else is gonna happy, okay? You're just gonna fall asleep." By the time Peter reached him, he slumped forward into his anticipating embrace. "Good night buddy, I wish I had proper time to thank you."

"What about the suits?" Belinda asked, leaning on Olivia's offered shoulder as she drew her portal a little larger.

"Everyone get out of here," Gabriel responded, cracking his knuckles and rolling his neck, feeling somewhat jittery and creative, "and just leave them to _me_."


	15. 15 Homecoming

**A/N: Omg... the last chapter! I'm not gonna cry! I'm not gonna... *sniff*... cry. Just a warning, this chapter, fer sure, is a strong "M". Please enjoy and thank you - ALL of you - for sticking with me on this ride, I can't tell you how much it means. This has been a labor of love and would've gone nowhere without you. So, anyhoo, on with the show and keep your eyes peeled for an epilogue and a new multi-chapter I hope to get started this week. OH! And enjoy tonight's season finale!!! Sylar Redeemists rejoice!!!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**15) Homecoming**

Feeling more than just a little like his namesake, an angel of war, Gabriel the Herald (Osiris, Lord of the Afterlife) took inventory as he brought around his fearsome arm, dancing in a dangerous arc of beautiful destruction. One – he hated being chased. A lifeless head rolled away from a falling, black-suited body that would never chase him again. Two – he hated being manipulated, or lied to. Like, by the last few people in which he risked placing his precious, tentative trust – one of which was currently warming a cage lining the wall, unknowingly grateful for his benevolent if not reluctantly practiced mercy. Three – he hated being drugged. He deftly dodged darts, collars, and blinking mechanisms spewing poisonous gas as he hacked open the chest of a flamethrower who missed him with every attempt to incapacitate him. Four – he hated being shot. A menacing, wolfish, smirking growl briefly lit his features as he turned, pushing to create space and flinging searing flashes of scorching energy to pummel into his enemy, and he felt the cold heft of the only deadly firearm in the room press against the small of his back where it was tucked into the waistline of the pants he'd… borrowed from an unconscious Mike. He howled with terrifying fury when he carelessly tripped into retaliating fire – something electric razed across his skin and temporarily paralyzed him, almost creating a detrimental domino effect that would keep him from regaining control of the fight. As he toppled forward into proper balance, parrying a clawed swipe from a lycanthrope that was allowed to move closer than he would've liked, he seized the opportunity to turn events back into his favor and he remembered number five – he hated being electrocuted. He found the previous culprit and dispatched him with bloody, cold indifference.

When he was the last living thing standing, he took a moment to calm his heavy, exerted breath and survey the halo of gore around him, wiping a shaking hand across his sweating brow. Over the buzzing whir of Belinda's waiting portal and the sound of footsteps alerting the approach of round number two, he heard Mike groan back to life off to his right.

"There're gonna be more than suits," the man warned quietly, grimacing as he noticed his distinct lack of clothing.

"Why would you tell me?"

"Look at me, buddy… I'm disarmed and in my freakin' _underwear_… what else have I got to lose? Certainly ain't my dignity…" They both knew _that_ wasn't true – he was responsible for saving the lives of potentially millions. If there was anything he _did_ have, it was dignity. "I ran a trace on your black-suited friend's fet number… found him _here_, after we knew he was on Leo. He had to have come over on the same ship, but other than a handful of agents and a small army of the Guard… there was no one else. And then I remembered that one… from the _gym_… and I knew we were dealing with an imposter. I instituted an order that would reveal him. All available hands were sent to his location, but I knew that whatever this was, it was all about _you_. So I broke rank and came down here instead. It sounds like everyone else is starting to catch on. You should probably jump down that rabbit hole while you still have a chance. They might not be shooting tranqs."

Mike was right. Nothing they'd worked so hard to achieve was going to be worth anything if they didn't get away. He turned to his old partner one last time, but he didn't know what to say.

"Maybe we'll meet again someday, under better circumstances," the other man supplied to fill the awkward void.

Gabriel nodded firmly. "I hope you get to go home and see your kids soon," he replied as he backed away and disappeared through the purple hole.

He rematerialized on the other side just in time to catch a fainting Belinda.

"I'm okay," she muttered weakly as he tucked a shoulder under her arm give her proper support, even if that wasn't exactly what Sylar had in mind for the girl. They were engulfed in a cacophony of sound, ranging from shouts to shots fired to the discharge of various offensive abilities. Looking around, he took note of their surroundings – she'd transported them to a large hangar… at the space port in Carver City. They were in a restricted area which had gotten them embroiled in an altercation with security and had also drawn the unwanted attention of a few screaming civilian bystanders, but the Feds hadn't had a chance yet to arrive. The sooner they could hijack a ship and break orbit the greater their chances of success. "Olivia said this is where the Feds house some of their subsidized transport ships," Belinda whispered. "I think she said there was one available in bay C3, but I didn't know how to get there."

"That's alright, we'll get it figured out," he told her, hauling her to a protective barrier of cargo crates. He stepped away as Olivia pulled back to greet them, the small handgun she'd been able to procure from a fallen guard having run out of ammo.

"We're not gonna be able to hold this position," he told Peter as he crept up behind him, sorry to distract him from telekinetically shielding their compatriots as they fought to defend themselves.

"I know, I just don't know where to go, and I've been kinda _preoccupied_…"

"Olivia says there's a ship in bay C3 – I can keep a shield up if you wanna start probing some minds." _Have fun with that, Pete_. _That_ was an ability Gabe could truthfully say Sylar had never coveted. Peter only nodded before ducking down behind the looming tower of boxes. With the relative ease of centuries of experience, Gabriel pushed his arms out in front of him then spread them wide, creating a formidable and impenetrable invisible wall – one that prograded, knocking the crouching and firing uniformed officers off of their feet to roll away, scraped across the floor by the force. He could sense the other telekinetic, the one he'd seen earlier, picking weapons away, creating a safer distance between them and their handlers. Plumes of flames, balls of light, and booming sonic explosions filled the space left empty by the retreating cavalry, accentuating the point while doing no further damage.

"Whatchoo got, Petey?"

"_Shhh shhhh_…" he hushed impatiently in response, waving a finger in the air. He replaced it back to his temple, and a vein started to pop across his forehead. "Don't let them get so far away, it gets tough to hear them."

"Pffff, why didn't you just say so?" He slung out a ghostly lasso, yanking a singular security officer to land, howling, at their position. Olivia joined them and, very businesslike, pressed the barrel of her gun to the back of the man's ball-capped head, immobilizing him in surrender. He didn't have to know the thing wasn't loaded.

"Please, I have a wife and kids, don't -"

He was interrupted the moment Peter seized his hands around the man's face.

"Just show me what I want to know," he murmured, closing his eyes in concentration. After a few moments of tense stillness he smiled. "Three bays – just three bays down, north of us, that's all the further we have to go – we can make it!"

"That's not very far, I can take us," Belinda offered, with a bit more color to her cheeks as she slowly pulled herself to her knees.

"No, Lindy," Olivia interrupted, "we can go on -"

"Seriously, that's a piece of cake, I can do it. _Really_."

"Sleep," Peter told the officer before gently laying his limp body on the floor. "The quicker the better, guys. I say let her try."

Gabriel reinforced his barrier as the refugees retreated and Belinda drew a circular opening in the air. He released his hold when he was the last to step through, turning to tell the girl, "You must think you're pretty damned useful or something, huh..." She smiled as she followed him and the hole cinched shut behind them.

They were all smashed together on the other side, pinched between stacks of more crates. Without taking the time to wonder what was inside such a heavily piled payload, Olivia and Gabriel elbowed their way toward the cockpit.

"If you can wrench open those hangar doors, I can take 'er out," she told him.

"Please, give me something _hard_."

Gabriel waved goodbye to the rapidly converging herd of security personnel as they collectively drew up short, some skidding from the abrupt change in momentum, evident fear written across their faces as they saw the craft lurch backward, afraid that they'd be sucked out into the vacuum of space if they didn't seal the inner hold immediately. He spared them by telekinetically drawing shut the aperture that separated the bay from the rest of the station. He turned to face the outer doors and smiled at the stars twinkling invitingly on the other side. _Home_ was out there – no longer an intangible concept stoked by a fevered and inventive imagination… no longer an instrument used for self-pitying torture, but _real_. Real and _waiting_, sunny and warm, smelling like fresh roses and lilac. He held both hands out before him and pulled them apart, taking the doors with them. The inky depths presented themselves, offering an invitation they did not refuse.

~*~*~

"They give you a rough time, Agent Hornberg?"

Mike jerked, startled by the commanding voice, and looked up straight into the formidable, if not slightly scary, purplish complexion of his statuesque, perpetually-angry, red-headed boss.

"You could say that, Director, given my present… circumstances."

He didn't need to gesture, indicating his current state of incarceration and undress, but he did anyway. It was an oddly reflexive human habit. Another agent, no one he'd met before, released him from his cage and brought him a lab coat to drape around him like a blanket.

"Well, I hate seeing that happen to one of my best operatives," Director Scott continued with a dualistic tone of voice. "Calls are coming into dispatch from spaceport security over in Carver City. They're saying that a massive group of over thirty mods just showed up – out of _thin air_ – in the middle of a hangar bay, inciting a massive riot. They're attempting to make off with a ship."

Mike cast his eyes to the ground, avoiding the man's penetrating gaze while he attempted to button up the modest garment. He knew what he was after. Tesseract drives merely created carefully calculated '_divots_' in space between pairs of coordinates, drawing them close to each other – flying the ship, in the conventional sense, was not really a necessity once its mass was no longer affected by gravitational pull. Oftentimes coordinates were programmed remotely, and they were _always_ stored – onboard in the vehicle's computer and additionally in Central databases (assuming they weren't just as tampered with as the Central laboratory turned out to be… and he would guess that they were). The Director wanted to know where they were going. But… why ask him?

"If you like, sir, I can place a call down to data warehousing, and -"

"That's not gonna do you any good, Agent, they're not going anywhere – they took the wrong kind of ship. They're sitting ducks unless they try to pull into the space station to hijack yet another vehicle of some kind."

This yanked Mike's attention away from the front of his coat.

"But… then -"

"What I'd like to _know_, Agent, is where they were thinking they were going to _go_."

And that was it right there. _Coordinates were always stored onboard in the vehicle's computer_. He wanted the coordinates that were stored in the computer he'd salvaged from Gabriel's stolen transport on Leo. He considered his dilemma for a fraction of a breath. One the one hand, if he complied, his career record stood a greater chance of remaining untarnished. He had no guarantee that Gabriel and his band of refugees would be attempting to escape to that particular location. On the other hand, what if he was wrong? What if that's _exactly_ where they were going to go? And the things Gabriel and the false Guard had said… Thoughts of a galaxy living in peace clouded his mind… perhaps he could cash out his pension and open a bakery, maybe in a little suburb near the mountains outside of Ashton… What sense did it make to allow them to walk out the front door only to send the cavalry to meet them at the gate?

"Sir, I haven't had the chance yet to file my official report," he began to formulate his lie, "but all I found in the memory banks of the Leo transport's motherboard was a log of the last few messages sent to and from the communications array. Some of the board was damaged during the resulting confrontation after the transport touched down," which wasn't exactly untrue, "corrupting the rest of the data. Sadly, I couldn't get it to read. I'm sorry I couldn't be much more help. Perhaps I could offer to interrogate the prisoners once they're brought in for questioning?"

"Indeed, I think that would be most helpful, Agent."

~*~*~

"Uhh, Liv? Where're you taking us?" Peter's voice cut through a backdrop of relieved murmuring and nervous laughter. Even Gabriel had allowed himself the brief moment of victory, watching the planet recede behind them, heedless of the myriad hard lessons his long life had taught him to the contrary.

"Where do you think, Peter?" There was a slightly panicked note to her voice that plucked at Gabriel's ears and set him on edge. He hadn't quite heard the fat lady yet…

"Because it looks – and I'm not assuming anything here, alright, it just _looks_ – like you're taking us toward the space station."

"_Peter_. Really? Have you completely forgotten the plan? Look around you, all the crates??? This isn't a _ship_, honey, it's a freakin' cargo shuttle. Remember? We pop in, we pop out, we're a couple feds transporting a section of mods to a new facility, we take the shuttle to the ship at the station, and we jet out of dodge before anyone knows anything is up – yes? But NO, that's too _easy_. You – yes, _YOU_ – had to go and get _caught_!"

"So," Gabriel interjected, "what you're saying is -"

"What I'm _saying_ is that there are no tesseract drives on this vessel. We either fight it out on that station and hijack a ship the violent rebel sort of way, or we aren't going _anywhere_."

Of course. The fat lady hadn't even started warming up. Gabriel could feel the artificial gravity working on his jaw as he and Peter stood and stared at her dumbly. To be honest, it wasn't that he objected much to the '_violent rebel_' part, but he didn't want to scare the new people.

"Oh my god, Liv!" Peter cried indignantly. "Why wouldn't you get us on a different ship?!?"

"Because, _honey_, Carver City is just a _port_ – the _station_ is where all the ships are!!!"

"So why didn't we just telep-"

Hushed triumph turned into frightened cries as the craft was jarred by an unseen force, tossing people over each other as they scrambled to get away from heavy toppling boxes upset by the sudden wild rocking.

"What the hell was th-"

They were knocked about again and then a third time. The three locked eyes before Peter crawled around the co-pilot's console to peer at a sharp angle out of the viewport. A cloud of drones and a handful of heavier fighter-craft were pouring from the station on a pursuant course.

"Oh hell…"

"That good, huh," Gabriel replied, grasping at the bulkhead as the vessel was nailed again. "I don't know about you, but I was thinking we weren't quite screwed enough yet, you know, 'cause I really like it a little _harder_ up the ass. Just a preference." He whirled at the sudden clamor of frenzied shouts accompanied by the scathing sound of a sickening hiss. Fear numbing his limbs, he retreated a few steps into the cargo hold to discover the cement-secreting mod applying his… _talent_ to a nasty breach in the hull before they lost too much air.

"Sylar!" Peter yelled for him. "We need a containment field around this ship! NOW!"

Sure, if he could keep a shuttle intact upon atmospheric re-entry he could deflect a few explosions, right? No problem. He dropped to his knees for stability, extended his arms at his sides, and closed his eyes. He let his innate ability tunnel his focus, feeling along the outer edges of the hull, forcing all other stimuli to drop away. He pushed back against anything that pushed against _him_, particularly projectile weaponry.

He was nearly interrupted by Olivia's startled shriek as she watched three drones zip past the fragile viewport, attempting to slice its surface with red hot lasers, their energy rippling across the transparent surface of Gabriel's hopefully impenetrable shield. He could feel every electron burst, and he grit his teeth as his mind believed his skin was burning. His eyes watered from exertion and pain as he tried to ignore the bombs pummeling against his spine and ribs.

"Peter," Olivia called, "I have an idea! Do you remember the coordinates? If so, I can pull them up on the holo-display's star chart and Belinda can -"

"Belinda's not taking us anywhere," Peter replied, pointing to the girl where she sat oblivious to current events, crammed unconscious up against the bulkhead thankfully out of the way. A red stain had begun to appear across her abdomen – her sutures had obviously ruptured and she was in need of immediate medical attention.

"Fuck! What are we gonna -"

"No problem." Peter pivoted to swivel himself next to her where he knelt and smoothed one hand over her shoulder, adding her ability to his already bursting piggybank of powers. "I know where we need to go, I know the coordinates."

He stood and flung an arm toward the viewport, blinking as the buzzing drones continued their blinding assault and his eardrums were popping under the considerable raucous din, and he muttered to himself the same thing he'd heard Belinda repeat countless times.

"I guess I'm, uh… drawing a big ass door or something…"

A bright purple dot fizzled into existence in the distance.

"Peter, it needs to be bigger -"

"I'm working on it! Like I've done this a _million times_ or something, good grief…"

"Quickly Peter!" Gabriel cried from where he'd made his final stand. "_Fuck_!!! Before I run out of skin – _NOW_!!! Oh my GOD!!! Do it NOW!"

…Skin? Unsure of what the loon was going on about, he concentrated on… spinning. Like pizza crust… and who was the loon _now_… but the faster it spun, the larger it got. He applied more force with every revolution, terrified to think about what would happen if the thing spun out of control. Would it supernova? Eat up the whole universe? Or… was there a limit to how big he could make it? He wasn't sure what frightened him more.

"It's working, Peter," Olivia breathed next to him, he hadn't felt her get so close. "Keep going – we could almost fit through…"

She gasped and jumped in surprise when the piloting console sparked wildly and detonated into careening, scorching red sparks – Gabriel was losing strength rapidly, one of the lasers had broken through.

"No NO!!! _Fuck!_ Peter – I can't fly the ship!!! The circuitry, it's been cut – I can't span across!"

"Sylar, do you think you can push us through?"

He didn't receive a response.

"_Sylar!_"

He heard the man grunt as he tried to form a panting reply.

"No friction… nothing to push _against_…" Another explosion blasted against the hull, sending people and cargo to sway alarmingly off balance. "OH! Nevermind!" He pushed against it. He bellowed with agonizing strain as they slowly began to inch toward the portal.

"What about the drones?"

"Won't… go through… signal… gets lost…"

"Come on come on come on come on…" Olivia whimpered, fingers crossed and white-knuckled under her trembling lips. Reflected against the plexi-cement she could see the apparitions of two larger ships undocking from the station behind them, no doubt being sent to blast them from the heavens, bit by bit. And while the things were gargantuan and sluggish, if they didn't get moving…

She didn't release her breath until they were on the other side and the air collapsed around her with a sudden deafening absence of sound, save for the muted cries and soft moans from their human cargo. Her breath shuddered and hitched in her throat – she wasn't one who cried easily but the vision before her, combined with the aftershocks of their narrow escape, ripped the emotion unwillingly free.

It was like it was made of glass – the sphere swirled with colors so breathtaking they couldn't possibly belong in nature. Beside her, Peter slumped into the pilot's chair, resting a heavy elbow on the ruined console. Somewhere distantly behind they heard Gabriel's heavy form fall forward, heard the fleshy slaps of his palms hit the deck.

"Are… are we there? Are we _safe_?" Olivia openly sobbed.

"Sagittarius, that clever bastard… he took us to fucking _Sagittarius_."

"Didn't it blow up? Forever ago?"

"Wouldn't that mean it's deserted?"

Olivia was happy to concede the point, trailing disbelieving fingertips down the pane, shaking with adrenaline and desire.

~*~*~

"I can't believe we got this close but we're still so far away…"

Voices called to him, dragging him mournfully back to consciousness. Gabriel rolled his face against the scratchy surface of a packing crate, dutifully supporting his weight as he helplessly leaned into it. He couldn't wait until he could get back on that warm beach with a cold drink and a naked Claire and he could forget all about these worthless fucking _spaceships_ for a while…

"I know… it's cruel to just sit here and be able to _look_ at it, but not be able to get any closer…"

"How much longer do you think we have until we run out of air?"

_Oh god, seriously?_

"I dunno… there's a lot of us…"

"I could fly it if I could get the computer to talk to the engines, but the connections have been severed in so many places, I'm not sure I can find them all… and we have no _materials_…"

"Maybe he could push the ship again!"

The thought speared him with a white hot shot of pain.

"You heard him earlier – space has no friction. There's no opposing _reaction_ – he's got nothing to push against."

"Maybe if I open up the patch I made over here on the hull breach, the escaping atmosphere would -"

"NO!!!"

"No, don't do that!"

"Are you _crazy_?!?"

"It was just an idea…"

"I can find where it's broken," Gabriel finally groaned, rubbing his face and scrubbing fingers through his mussed hair. He backed his way up the bulkhead until he got his feet underneath him, pitching forward unsteadily before Peter firmly grasped his shoulder.

"Easy, take it easy."

The room spun a little before eventually righting itself, allowing him to walk a more certain path to the cockpit.

"Even if you could," Olivia told him as he approached, "I'm not sure how we'd fix it – these crates are filled with textiles and food goods, medical supplies… not so much with the wiring and the soldering guns…"

"Actually," spoke a heavily muscled black man, "I think I can help with the wiring." He moved through the parting crowd to join her. At her side, he reached a tentative hand toward her head. "If you'd allow me…" She held unflinchingly still as he plucked a couple hairs from her crown. Holding them before her eyes she watched with desperate amazement as he transformed them into something decidedly more… metallic. The tiny rods glistened in the glow of the cruelly mocking planet outside the viewport. "I'm an alchemist."

"And wow, look at this," Gabriel replied, slightly chafed that he didn't first think of the ability he'd taken from Elle's father. He channeled his old victim's daughter instead, presenting his fingertips as a zapping arc of energy danced between them. "I've got a soldering gun. We'll be back up and running in no time."

"Provided we don't run out of air."

"Peter. Shut up."

Gabriel sprawled himself on the deck and gingerly began to remove the paneling underneath the console. His tremendous insight followed each individual path to its proceeding component system and the requisite bus controllers, memorizing intersections and tracing conduits as they were redirected. While he was busy devising a mental blueprint of the necessary repairs, the alchemist, whose name was Boli, began accepting hair donations from ladies with longer locks while the cement-secreting mod, who called himself Jack, set himself to the task of braiding and coating the new wires. He smiled for the first time he could remember, having always been ostracized, even amongst his own kind, for possessing a somewhat _off-putting_ ability. He'd never guessed that something most would consider frankly revolting could ever come in handy, let alone lifesaving.

After a good twenty minutes of watching Gabriel's lower torso and legs twist and writhe as he repositioned himself in the cramped space, wincing as he hissed having singed his own flesh a couple times on some live connections, Olivia clapped in elation when the familiar winding hum of the engines sent vibrations through the hull and up her spine through the bottoms of her feet. Gabriel carefully extracted himself and stood, brushing himself off with smug satisfaction.

"Oh," he heard her sudden inhalation. "I remember you! Yeah! You crashed a plane in the Missouri River by the Kansas City Downtown Airport – I tranqed you in my living room!"

His eyes widened little as he drew a hand across the back of his neck, looking for any way to change the subject…

"Yeah! And then we wrestled your sorry butt into the back of my roommate's car and that blonde girl – _Claire_ – she hauled you off to some hotel – oh yeah!" She turned to face her lover. "I remember her now Peter!"

"Yeah… things've _changed_… oh wow, look at that." A blinking green button on the communications array had legitimately captured Gabriel's attention. "Never seen it do that before…"

"Do what," Peter asked as he leaned in to have a better look. "Hmm, well… let's push it and see what it does."

"What – are you _nuts_?!? No way! Dude, why don't we just get down to the planet, and then we can -"

"Sylar, don't be a pussy. Green's not a bad color, it's a _good_ color – it might be important."

He could almost smell the sea foam. His patience was slipping and he was getting cranky. People didn't like him when he was cranky.

"Pete. 'Good color?' _Really_? Look, the ship'll fly _just fine_ without it, it can't be that impor-"

"Then why is it blinking like it's trying to get our attention???"

"Do you _know_? Know what it's like to _explode_? _In space_? Because I do, and -"

"I agree with him," Olivia interrupted. "It's making its presence known for a reason. We should push it."

_Fuck._

"Just when I thought we weren't gonna die I'm suddenly clinging to life again…" Gabriel muttered as he wandered away, praying his intuition was wro-

Crisp, crackling static filled the hold. And then, a divinely delicate ringing harmony, her voice hung between his ears like a favorite lingering song.

"Louisa? Are you upstairs? Can you get one of the guys to come help me with this basket – it's heavy!"

He whipped around and flung out his arm, narrowly colliding with the surrounding bodies, and he smashed his hand down hard on that damned infernal blinking green button… but the voice that fell from his lips was little more than a stunned whisper.

"…Claire?"

~*~*~

With no more uncharted territory to occupy her restless mind, Claire turned, instead, to housework. She retreated to the downstairs portion of the mansion to avoid her roommates, who were all becoming equally agitated with the redundantly close quarters and the increasingly dismal prospect of ever being able to leave. She'd suggested to them they perhaps plan a shuttle trip, just to get them out of the house – an idea that was met with much wholehearted approval. So, as she sequestered herself, humming happily in the relative quiet while she dwindled her way through a couple loads of laundry before moving off to fiddle with a lovely room-length wine cellar, the rest of the planet's paltry populace put their heads together around the dining room table, eagerly discussing what supplies to take, which direction would be their heading, and whether or not it would be wise to consider an overnight stay. The last thing she'd heard before the door shut behind her was Arturo lamenting over the lack of a proper weather forecast. Claire guessed there was proper instrumentation inside the lighthouse to grant him his wish – she'd head there in a little while after she'd enjoyed just a little more alone time.

The first time they'd been down in this section of the house they'd been surprised to discover that the objects comprising the space had been coated with more dust than toxic residue, the bulk of both residing in the honeycomb shapes of the impressive rack of bottles. A tune floating through her head matching the rhythm of the spinning laundry unit, she settled herself securely on her ladder, removing the glass containers from their holes which she then doused with sterilizing chemicals. The eighth bottle she pulled gave her a pause. It was nearly one hundred years old – sealed as tightly as the day it was corked… and it was a _pinot noir_. She read those two words, lightly inked in gold on the label, over and over.

It was true, she hadn't appreciated the sultry liquid when she was seventeen, new to the world and unrefined as sugar cane (and the situation in which she'd been exposed to it hadn't been… ideal), but she wanted to think that several centuries went a long way toward maturing the palate. And while she had a healthier appreciation for a robust cabernet, or even a smoky shiraz picked late from a harsh climate… the pinot was Gabriel's favorite. Her rag dropped from her fingers and slapped wetly on the floor and she cursed under her breath. Instead of rushing down to retrieve it, she hesitated, drawing her thumb over the fading picture printed on the paper, smearing a clean trail through a small haze of grey fuzz.

She pressed the neck of the tapering cylinder against her lips, cool and musty – the exact opposite of the man whose mouth haunted her waking dreams. He'd been warm, fresh, and delicious, but she couldn't help herself. She kissed the cold glass tenderly all the same – it connected her with him, it was a link. It _meant_ something.

Feeling like laundry and dusting were no longer so satisfying, and thinking perhaps she might head to the lighthouse after all, perhaps to enjoy a glass of wine, she descended and stuffed the beloved bottle deep into her linen basket where it could withstand a safe ride up the stairs. She piled on an even greater mound of items just finishing their cycle in an attempt at efficiency, but found she could no longer lift her load.

She never dreamed in a million years that when she called upstairs for help she'd hear his voice answer her.

~*~*~

"… G-Gabe? Is… that you?"

"Yeah, it's me, Claire."

"Oh my god…"

"Wow, this relay operates on a completely different frequency -"

"Can any of you guys hear this upstairs?!? Or am I just going crazy?!?

"No, child, we hear him too -"

"_Claire_, we just entered orbit, and -"

Gabriel was interrupted by a loud banging noise on her end.

"Ouch – oh my god, are you _serious_?"

"Of course I'm serious – how else would I be talking to y… how _am_ I talking to you…?"

"_Oh my god you're alive!!!_"

"Claire -"

"There's a P.A. system all over this house," a voice filled in for the girl's sudden loss of articulation, presumably Kelly the doctor. "We think the people who lived here didn't just monitor the dome generator but also controlled shuttle traffic to and from the area -"

"Where are you!!!"

"Half a world away," he told her. "We dropped down on the night side, and it's a big planet – it's gonna take us half a day to get to you -"

"Oh _god_ it's good to hear your voice… please keep talking," she wept, muffled and sounding like her face was pressed against the panel.

Gabriel grinned in vindication as, beside him, Peter's eyebrows slowly began to climb.

"There's some things I need you to do," he continued. "We've got a group of about thirty-five people on this ship who have nowhere else to go. I'm gonna have to work on the dome when I get home to try to extend it and get it to cover some more houses, but in the meantime we need clothing, bedding, food..."

"No problem, I can handle that. Oh my god I missed you so much… Hey! I think there's climatic instrumentation in the lighthouse – I'm headed up there now. I can give you a heads up on the weather maybe?"

"That'd be really great. I missed you too."

"I love you, Gabriel."

The heated glare he received was as murderous as Pious Peter the Paladin could get. For a split second Gabriel was worried he might get hit. _Hard_. After all… it felt like he was carrying on a secret relationship with what could be considered the man's baby sister – his only family. Between a rock and a hard place, ignoring Olivia's snicker of amusement over Peter's shoulder, he gulped and thought twice before answering.

"I, uh… I love you too. I'll see you soon."

"I can't wait!" She broke the channel.

"You said you were '_friends_'," Peter began, shoving his face a little closer.

"Yeah, so, uh… things've _changed_ a little bit, so…"

"Dude, that was freakin' _last week_!"

"Yes. Yes it was, I know. They've changed _quickly_. And we both know you didn't belie-"

"Quickly? _Quickly_?!? What did you do – did you brainwash her?!?"

"Brai- Brainwash?!? Really? What are we, _cartoon characters_?!? Seriously…"

Olivia sighed contentedly and slipped into the co-pilot's chair to watch the blanket of mint and lavender clouds slide past, the continued noise of their persistent argument echoing off of the ionosphere as a pleasant sort of white noise. She closed her eyes and let their funny lullaby lure her into a cozy dreamland.

"Because _obviously_, she's lost her mind – how could she just _forget_ who you are!"

"Are you _kidding_?!? _Dude_! _Centuries_ in prison!!! A _decade_ of psychotherapy!!!"

"Only psychos need _psycho_therapy, Sylar…"

~*~*~

Their world was about to get a lot larger _and_ a lot smaller, all at the same time. The house was humming with a busy mix of anticipation and dismay. There would be no shuttle weekend away, and nearly forty people were going to have to find a way to share… oh who was she kidding, the place had five bathrooms, not including the spartan half-bath in the generator room. But still…

On the other hand there would be new _people_. There was the prospect for new friendships, there would be new stories to entertain, new skills and ideas and voices and faces. New _society_. The excitement was invigorating. After Claire had returned from the lighthouse, warning her beloved to avoid a pretty nasty storm brewing off the opposite coast of the continent, she got happily busy sorting clothing while Louisa and Kelly were engaged in preparing three large pots of a warm, filling soup. The men set to work creating several rows of floor pallets in a large recreational room facing an opulent yet mucky and polluted star-shaped pool in the back yard. While they had enough blankets, they were running short on pillows and were considering making due with furniture cushions.

When everything was done and ready, all that was left to do was wait and fidget. Arturo hadn't left the window in the front room since the last bed was made. Kelly got up to stir the pots far too often. Louisa was cleaning things that were already clean. Jesse… well, he was youthfully oblivious, sprawled on the large sofa battling a hand-held gaming console he'd found. Claire could only pace for so long, unwilling to split anymore threads in the luxurious and ancient oriental rug, elbows sore from her firm, anxious grip. Lost in thought, she allowed her feet to unconsciously take her where they would, the image of his soft, dark eyes painted behind her eyelids, tantalizing her with the idea that she'd soon be gazing into them, kissing his velvet lips, her skin tickled beneath his silky touch and feathery sweet breath. She nearly bumped into the door of the magnetic lift when she reached it… she'd unknowingly led herself back to the lighthouse. Reassured by the knowledge that Gabriel was alive and safe and on his way home, she released her wary karmic inhibition and beamed with a girlish glow as she rode her way to the top where she sat perfectly still, never tearing her eyes from the horizon.

Until, after what felt like hours… something _glimmered_ in the distance.

"Claire," her name buzzed through the air, causing her to jump with a mixture of shock and joy.

"Is that you?"

"I think I see the lighthouse, yeah."

He didn't receive a response. She flung herself at the lift, jabbing the button over and over in a nonsensical attempt to make it open faster. After an insufferably long ride she was finally on the ground, and she tumbled forward on legs that were moving more slowly than her hammering heart, taking a few hurried steps before tripping, plunging her knees into the malleable ground before her arms clawed her back upright. When she reached the house she tore the door open and ran down the hall, tracking sand and grass from her scraped (but healing) kneecaps across the expensively tiled floor.

"They're here!!! They're here!!! They're here!!!"

She heard a Kelly's spoon hit the countertop and Louisa's rag smack the floor before a gang of footsteps hastened to follow her down through the generator room into the earthen hanger residing deep beneath the lighthouse overhead. Claire strained her ears to hear the sounds of approaching engines over the exerted exhalations of her friends. Kelly clasped her hands beneath her chin and Claire could feel Louisa's fingers slide over her shoulders. She was positively vibrating… until she realized it wasn't her, but the rock around her and under her feet. The sound that met them nearly knocked them down – it was a big ship. They retreated to the makeshift stone steps descending from the entrance.

The behemoth eclipsed any light fighting to penetrate the cavern. Claire clamped her hands against the sides of her head, fearful the noise would burst her eardrums, healing ability notwithstanding. Gusts of hot wind whipped her hair about her and pressed her clothes uncomfortably tight against her body. The bloated craft eventually touched down, its cooling turbines still clattering and clinking as their internal temperature changed. She held her breath as the rear hatch slowly opened, and the others raced from their position to greet the newcomers. She wasn't going to move a muscle until she saw his face, to be sure his voice wasn't a cruel trick her mind had played on her. But then another familiar person rounded the corner to meet her awaiting gaze – she launched herself forward, propelling into the open arms of her uncle.

"Peter!" she gasped, mashing her cheek against his. "And… Olivia…? But…"

"Hey, Claire."

She didn't know what else to say, speechless behind the realization that the number of people with whom she thought she'd be spending eternity had just tripled in the span of a couple seconds. She threatened to choke the life out of the man in her arms, a connection to a life that she'd long ago thought had ceased to exist. He had no idea how precious he was.

"Hey, you know what? I'm really pissed at you!" Peter broke her train of thought, shoving her backwards by her shoulders. "I cried at your funeral! I watched your mom go through so much grief, and your dad – I was there for the whole process! Where the hell were you?!?"

She just rubbed his arms, impervious to the change in his mood.

"I was being an idiot and by the time I realized it, it was too late – but right now I'm just so happy to see you!" Nothing could wipe the smile off of her face.

"Claire!" Louisa called from the entrance where she was huddled with a handful of other women. "How many differen' bra sizes did you say y'were able to scavenge?"

"Not many – if you can't find what you need try the sports bras or bikini tops – I've got 'em all grouped together."

"So," Peter brought her attention back, letting go of his anger for the moment but promising himself they'd talk more on the subject later, "I'm to understand you have a…uh… a _boyfriend_."

"Ooo, that's my cue to exit," Olivia muttered at Claire's mortified grimace, opting to step away and help Kelly move a disabled Belinda.

"Heh… yeah… _that_…"

"Uh huh, yeah – _that's_ gonna require some explanation. How the hell did that happen?"

"Well, that's kind of a long story, actually -"

"Claire," Kelly interrupted, "do we have any extra towels or rags? Olivia? Yes – follow Jesse, he can show you to the kitchen – will you put some water on to boil?"

"I had them stacked where the extra bedding was – I can show you -"

"No, I can get them, thank you," she replied, smiling warmly to a spot somewhere over Claire's shoulder, her expression making it very obvious that she was _not_ to accompany her. Claire turned her chin, following the woman's line of sight, and the rest of the world – with its continuous echoing drone and perpetually busy herd of refugees – dropped away, as if concealed by a blissful fog. With slender, leonine grace he dropped his feet to the ground, smiling a pearly, dimpled, mussy-headed grin to someone who was addressing him, with only a sliver remaining of the predator he used to be – just a background hue that no one else would recognize but her, and it was nothing she'd ever trade. It was a testament to his courage and his struggle, and it made him the man she fell in love with. A tiny blue spark snapped in the air between them when she caught his eye and the conversation he'd been having was immediately forgotten. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and parted his lips as he soundlessly mouthed her name, then he lifted one hand, reaching with an impatient need to place his skin next to hers. It was all the impetus she needed – she was happy to oblige him.

Tearing away from Peter's proximity, she broke into a run as Gabriel pushed his way clear of a few stragglers. Unaware of how close they'd come to being crushed by a short, blonde freight train, the unsuspecting bodies shuffled away in the nick of time just as she collided against him, leaping into his embrace and wrapping her legs around his waist. A moan of pleasure having been knocked from his chest, he clamped one arm around her and dug his fingers firmly under one of her thighs, twisting the other hand into her luxuriously silky hair. He froze and pressed her to him, content to do nothing more than simply breathe in her scent. _This_ girl was no dream. She was very real. And she had _no idea_… the things he wanted to do to her…

…or maybe she did, judging by the peppered trail of kisses she left against his neck, trailing toward his earlobe… the corner of his mouth… She fell away to plant both feet firmly on the floor and he cupped her face between both of his hands, his fingers stroking her temples as he smothered her mouth with his own. She balled her fists into his shirt, fighting to get him as close as she could for their lack of seclusion, returning his kiss with fervent passion. She pushed her tongue into him and sucked at him, pulling him to her, the moistening confluence of her thighs humming with unfulfilled desire.

Chest heaving, he pulled away, gasping for breath, rumbling a low chuckle in his throat that only she could hear. He rolled his forehead against hers, stroking her neck, collarbones, and shoulders, dipping his long, thick eyelashes down to brush against her eyelids.

"I have a present for you."

"Mmmmm…?" _Please let it be your dick in a box._

She felt him shift, retracting one arm to bend around behind him shortly before something large, cold, and metallic was placed in her hands. Taking a step back she opened her eyes to stare down Mike's gun, solid and formidable, doing its best to fill the void that Harley's loss had left in her. It did a damned good job – she blinked away happy tears.

"Oh… oh my god… it's so beautiful," she peered up at him wetly. "I just… oh, I love it!!!"

Inciting a few startled shrieks she swung the weapon high in outstretched arms, not quite locking her elbows as she drew a steady, confident aim on a nondescript spot on the ceiling. She felt complete – it was probably the happiest day of her life.

"I dub thee Anubis," she whispered, "child of Isis, Herald of the Dead."

Gabriel would've found the proclamation a tad morbid if she wasn't so cute.

~*~*~

Hushed starlight blanketed the house with tranquil, twinkling nightfall, a satiating dinner having come and gone. Safe and happy people were content to play cards or curl up for the first bit of restful sleep to be enjoyed in a long while. A bone-weary exhaustion tugged at Claire's joints as she sunk into the chair at the dining room table, blowing a sigh of fulfillment while leaning forward on her elbows to examine the object about which Peter and Kelly were conversing, innocently taking up space amidst their quiet speech. It appeared to be a clear, plastic bag filled with an unexceptional sort of colorless liquid. She took her uncle's fingers and delivered to them a familial tug, still marveling over the good fortune the day had bestowed her.

"It's amazing such a battle could be waged over something so small…"

"And it's even smaller than this," Peter answered her, "the real culprit is the antibody it contains. _Microscopic_." He prodded at it with one finger.

"How is this going to be enough?" Claire's impetuousness got the better of her.

"Sylar said on the way here that this was a fully functioning colony," he returned and Claire smiled to herself, tickled to hear her lover referred to using the antiquated moniker. "Which means that there _is_ a Federal office here, and a Federal laboratory."

"That's the second best news I've heard all day," Kelly smiled. "Aside from this injection. It'd be a lot easier to practice medicine having access to a _real_ facility."

"We're gonna need it," Peter said. "We've got to be able to synthesize this formula if we're gonna start liberating mods and bringing them here."

Claire drew her brows together.

"So… the plan is to go back out there? And save people?"

"I think that's the responsible thing to do, yes. It doesn't feel right to just leave them all behind out there…"

That wasn't the part that concerned her.

"No, of course not. I can come with you guys this time though, yes?" Peter met her level gaze, seeing easily the point she was driving. "I wasn't exactly born to be a damsel, Peter, and I'm a better shot than most – I've had a lot of practice."

Peter grinned at the fierce combination of Petrelli and Bennett.

"Claire, it would be my honor to have you there with me. I can't think of anyone better."

She smacked her hand down on the table in satisfaction.

"Now that's the second best thing _I've_ heard all day!" she beamed, standing to take her leave – she had a little celebration on her mind. She tiptoed her way into the kitchen where she climbed a short stool, digging into a cabinet where she'd stashed her treasured bottle of wine. Laying it gently in a basket coupled with a corkscrew and two delicate goblets, she forged an undeterred path to the generator room where she knew she'd find him, diligently working to extend the dome and grant their emigrants a much needed new home. And while she knew there was much they would need to do tomorrow… there was at least one more thing she wanted to accomplish before she went to sleep.

She stifled a throaty chuckle when she reached him, butterflies flip-flopping in her belly, not yet wanting to alert him to her presence, only wishing to watch him for a few moments. The upper half of his body was obscured by the intimidating bulk of the machinery, but his legs, bent at the knee, were clearly visible, one foot lightly tapping a song he hummed in his head. A toolbox on the far side of the room had been toppled over, spilling its contents into a wide arc across the floor. She took a few silent steps toward it, intent on gathering the mess, but stopped short when his arm suddenly shot into view. A long, slender screwdriver slid across the polished cement until it reached his waiting fingers. She crept a little closer, curious to see if he picked the right one, thrilled to see he hadn't when his long, fuzzy arm reappeared. Another screwdriver – one with a different head – wiggled next to her right foot, preparing to take flight, but she interrupted it's trajectory by stepping on it. The extended arm was joined by a confused face whose eyes widened at the sight of the perpetrator inhibiting his progress.

"Good evening, Superman, I think you've worked long enough." She shook the dangling basket, listening to the crystal sing as the glasses rocked against each other. "I have a present for _you_ this time."

He licked his lips and eyed the wicker container suspiciously, crawling out from where he'd been tucked and raising to his full height. He crossed to an industrial sink near her and washed the grease from his hands.

"What is it?" he chimed, curiosity darkening the glistening pools of his eyes as he toweled himself dry. He accepted the bottle she handed him, turning it over to read the label. Recognizing the inside joke, his eyes slid shut with self-recriminating laughter.

"Don't you just love a good pinot…" his whisper echoed from a distant well of memory.

"To be honest," she moved forward with what she'd wished she'd been able to say at the time, "I'm more of a Riesling sort of girl, and I _know_ that surprises you," she didn't conceal her sarcasm, "but I've also occasionally been known to enjoy a late harvest cab."

"I can appreciate a good cab," he tossed back, stepping to tower over her in mock-challenge, one she was eager to accept. She didn't even jump when the cork popped, by itself.

"Should've known I wouldn't need to bring this thing," she gestured toward the unused corkscrew occupying the bottom of the basket.

"So why the pinot if you're not a big fan?"

"Well, for starters it's aged, probably rather nicely and… I guess it's kinda cathartic, in a way. A little can't hurt, can it?"

"Not in the least," he purred, reaching for one lovely, long-stemmed goblet, pouring into it a liberal dose of the flawless, crimson spirit. She set the basket on the floor, trading the remaining empty glass for the other, waiting patiently for him to fill it as well.

"A toast," he began, telekinetically jamming the cork back into the bottle before replacing it to its resting spot.

"Claire?" a voice called from upstairs. "Are you down here? We're looking for socks."

She smashed her hand over Gabriel's mouth before he could sound any sort of response.

"Shhh," she hissed. "I just want a little privacy."

"Follow me."

They snaked, holding hands, through the chamber to the hangar's yawning cavern, giggling as they scrambled up the back ramp into the cargo ship's rear bay. Gabriel started the motor that retracted the door while Claire stalked over to the cockpit, polarizing the viewport so that no one could see inside. Before he'd finished she retraced her steps to where a couple fold-out cots lined the bulkhead, useful for drivers who spent long hours shuttling goods back and forth. She pulled one down and had a seat, making herself comfortable, calming her jittery nervousness over the big step she was about to take.

When he joined her, he didn't sit – she wasn't the only nervous one, although he was doing a fabulous job at masking it. She had to admire his restraint – she was acutely aware this man had wanted her for hundreds of years, ever since he'd made some dumb speech to her about lions and cubs… and she'd accused him of being in love with her. She'd been right the whole time. But this night wasn't going to be about teasing or cruelty. _This_ night was going to be about generosity and need. She lifted her glass, ready to get the party started.

"You were saying, a toast?"

He mimicked her pose.

"Yes. A toast. To the conquering of a difficult past, and the promise of a far distant future."

She tilted her chin and nodded.

"Lovely."

She hadn't heard a word he'd said. She had been referring to his _eyes_, which she held as she sipped her wine, lifting the shimmering rim over her nose, fogging her senses with the flavor, the aroma, and the belly-warming effect of the alcohol. It tasted… old.

"Hmm…" he wrinkled his nose. "This… not so good."

"It tastes like grape-flavored dust," she giggled with a snort.

"Probably a poor vintage," he held his dregs aloft, examining them in the wan light of the console, "maybe from Pisces where the climate's too wet -"

His jaw stopped working. She'd drained her glass with one mighty swig, removed her shirt, then unclasped her bra, dropping it away. She sucked her lips into her mouth before dragging her tongue across them, removing any lingering droplets of the wine. A blush crept into his cheeks as he fought to keep from devolving into an awkwardly timid teenager, swallowing the remainder of his goblet, trying keep from grabbing at her to drool all over her boobs. But then, it was cool in the cavern and her nipples began to perk…

"I've seen those before," he rasped with husky nonchalance. She stood slowly. One step forward brought her close enough to take his glass from him. She laid them considerately into the pilot's chair before returning to confront him. He released a startled puff of air when she took his hand and guided it toward her left breast – she was grateful for its warmth.

"Yeah, I know, but you've never _touched_ them. I think I'd remember."

"Yeah, me too."

What she didn't know was precisely how many times he'd dreamed of this moment – his imagination was _intimately_ aware of how Claire's breast should feel against his hand, but the reality _far_ exceeded the expectation. He silently prayed to the powers that be to _please_ let him give this radiant woman at least one orgasm before he succumbed to the oblivion of his own climax… which was gonna happen pretty damned soon if she didn't stop… oh…

She brought herself close enough that their shoulders were nearly touching. He could only stare at her dumbly, feeling her breath billow against his neck, while she drew his other hand to cover the opposite breast. She compressed his fingers, coaxing him to instinctually massage the soft mounds of flesh, and he lightly dragged his thumbs across both nipples. She let her head fall back as she sighed in ecstasy. Without hesitation, he took the invitation and dropped his mouth to her throat, sliding his tongue along its silky expanse before pressing a kiss underneath her earlobe, by the elegant line of her jaw. The moan with which she rewarded his efforts caused him to lose his battle against his desire – his body quaked with a sudden intense need to taste every inch of her. She was finally _his_. He acted the only way he knew how.

He flung her against the bulkhead, pinning her in place, driven by the '_yesss_' that she ground between her teeth. Pushing himself between her legs, he latched his suckling lips onto one nipple, working on it to the point that it might cause a pain she couldn't feel, but soothing it all the same with slow, continuous laps of his tongue. He kissed his way over to the other, divulging upon it equal treatment. He allowed her enough freedom to wrap her arms around him and thread her fingers through his hair, and she drew her knees up along his ribcage, grinding her throbbing genitals against the hollow of his belly. It was time to get those pants off.

His fingers made short work of the button and the zipper, and he stepped back only long enough to rip the cloth away, panties and all, before he was back on her, feeling her stomach ripple with her rapid breath. He smoothed his hands up her trembling thighs as he let his mouth glide, leaving a hot wet trail from her chest, down to her navel, and down further still, so low she could rest her knees on his shoulders. He worshipped her there, leaving offerings of kisses at the altar of her femininity, slipping both thumbs in supplication to separate her quivering folds.

"Oh my god, oh yes please…"

Having received permission, he dipped his tongue inside her, coating the tip of his nose with the juices that had begun to collect there. He continued forth to the engorged little bundle of nerves that was desperate for his attention. She cried out as he took it into his lips and paid prodigious homage to it with his tongue. She clawed at him, or anything in reach, like she hadn't _received_ oral sex in decades. She writhed beneath him, arching her back, gasping for air, when she finally decided she'd had enough and it was _her_ turn to explore.

"Down," she mewled to him, "down…"

He let her feet smack to the floor but was unprepared as she bombarded him, shoving against his chest with all her might, hard enough that he toppled backwards onto the cot. She pounced on him immediately, straddling him and yanking his shirt over his head with one talented motion, raking feral bites across his collarbones. He cupped the backs of her thighs, eager to press his aching groin against her hovering middle when one urgently searching hand stuffed its way into his pants, gripping his penis hard before feverishly stroking it. She hummed with approval when the shock escaped from his throat. But the erection had enlarged to the point it was beginning to border on pain…

"Claire," his voice cracked as she continued her assault. "_Claire_ – it's over four hundred years old and it hasn't exactly seen a lot of business, so, uh, maybe you could be _gentle_?"

She pushed herself up, filling his view with her golden mane cascading in layers around her face, and she nibbled on her own wicked smile.

"Take off your pants."

"Yes ma'am."

He did as he was told.

He was instantly gratified as she covered the twitching, pulsing organ with her own warm, moist sex. Their eyes locked when just the tip of it popped inside her, panting in unison, blinking as they both realized the significance of what was happening. She was salvation. She was absolution. She had forgiven him. She _loved_ him. The future wasn't carved in stone, and they could be whoever they wanted – _together_. She placed her hands in his, entwining their fingers as she pushed him in the rest of the way.

She didn't even try to be quiet as he thrust into her, over and over. To hell with the world, let them hear. Let them know how they felt, let them smile at each other knowingly as they watched the ship rock, still hovering above the ground. Let them hear her yell _his_ name. Let them know who made her body feel like this.

Underneath her, he bared his teeth, sweat dotting his forehead as he rammed into her, hard enough to make her breasts bounce, spreading an expression across her face that was a mixture of joy, open-mouthed wonder, and something that looked a little like relief, like he was scratching an itch she just couldn't reach.

"Oh… oh god… oh don't stop don't stop don't stop…"

He held his breath, he curled his toes, he clamped his eyes shut, he was going to explode.

And then she dropped her jaw and straightened her spine, and her legs jerked rigidly as fluttering gyrations climbed up and down him inside her, and she lost her voice unable to scream any louder. He couldn't hold it any longer. Hot on the heels of her orgasm he followed, digging his fingers into her hips as he speared her and poured himself into her, crying and whimpering with every subsequent spasm.

She lowered her forehead to rest on his damp chest, shoving her hands underneath him, enveloping and comforting him as he continued to twitch.

"I've got you," she whispered, "I've got you."

When his breath stopped shaking and his limbs grew heavy, he rested them across her back, unwilling to let her move and separate herself from him… not just yet. He wasn't ready.

"Wow…" she murmured, tickling his skin. He could only stroke her hair and chuckle, the deep vibration lulling her into a complacent, satiated sort of trance. "I've been alive a long time," she went on, just barely within the realm of coherency, "but I think that was the most spectacular, uh…" she spared a glance to the console behind her, "_four minutes_ of my entire life."

This earned her a hearty laugh.

"We could stay here tonight," he begged.

"Hmmm…?"

"Stay. _Here_. In the ship. Together. I'm not ready to go back in there. And… I don't wanna sleep alone… not after…"

"Oh no, no… no, certainly – let's stay here."

"Thank you."

"Mmmm…"

"I love you, Claire."

"I love you too, Gabe."

~*~*~

They leave the surf together, hair dripping salt into their eyes as they collapse to the sand, mindful to get the grainy junk rinsed off before they go back to work in the house down the beach. It had been so hot in there, the break was needed – that and a cold beer… which had been tossed when she ran… oh well. It had been worth the exertion. He's resting on his elbows over her now, pelting her with light rain from his body, breathless as he caresses the tip of his nose down her breastbone. She smoothes her fingers over his shoulder blades, under his ribs, to circle around the back of his neck. He lifts his eyes to peer deeply into hers. She ponders the question Peter had asked her one more time – how did this happen, this thing that blossomed to life between them? Slowly, that's how. _Very_ slowly.

"You flip a mean pancake," she whispers, dragging one thumb over his lips. It's as flavorful as the sea when he kisses it. "It's incredibly sexy."

She entwines a leg with his as he covers her, pressing his face to her neck.

"You're gonna make me unlivable."

"You already are – no one could live with you but me."

He hushes that sassy mouth with a kiss, grateful every time she lets him.

"I had a dream once…"

"Mhmm?"

"We had sex in the water."

"Are you asking if we have time for a quickie?"

"Maybe later tonight, when everyone's asleep." He'd been worried about spectators then too.

They stay like this for weeks, detoxifying homes and hacking through the jungle to find the lab. They're growing a new colony, a new culture, a new _life_. It's something to fight for. Shortly thereafter they make their first trip back into what they're deciding to call the '_Old World_' – the first stop is Leo, not just to rescue their beleaguered brothers and sisters, but because it's also a neat idea to maybe incorporate some pilfered livestock into their plans because not all humans are happy perpetually living as vegetarians, despite Arturo's best intentions.

Blazing a trail of bullets and mayhem, Claire fights side by side with everyone she loves for what she knows is right – she is Isis, Protector of Lost Children, consort to her equal, Osiris the God of Love and Eternal Life.

And so it was to be, hundreds of years later during times of hardship, mothers would still tell their children that all good things come to those who wait, and if they do, then someday the angel – Gabriel – will swoop out of the sky to collect them, and fly them away to Paradise.

**Fin**

**Thanks again, all - I love you!**


End file.
